


Saying Thank You

by Tallihensia



Series: Spanning the Reaches [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Lots of Touching, M/M, Missing Scenes, Napoleon is slightly self-delusional sometimes but it’s his pov, Touching, Trust, feelings got in there too, movie resolution, pwp that ran away on me – far far away, scene recreations with character thoughts, too much adrenaline between action and restless spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5009356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tallihensia/pseuds/Tallihensia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon reflects on his partner while waiting to rescue him.  Afterwards, Illya has a unique way of saying thank you for saving his life.  Napoleon thinks it’s a good idea... and after Illya saves him, returns the thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: none
> 
> Spoilers: Movie. This will make no sense without having seen the movie. Really.
> 
> Disclaimer: Only mine in my dreams. This story was written for free entertainment purposes only and may not be reproduced for profit or altered without permission.
> 
> Notes: I love those two. ^^ Set of recreated and missing scenes through the movie. You’ll know them. Some have been done before, but I had to make my own too. Because we all want a bit more action there... ;D
> 
> My intended pwp fic turned into a bit more than just that when I started the scene too early in the movie and then it just... kept going. And, going. And... well, there’s a lot more missing scene and story now than pwp. ^^;;; But the sex is in there too, I promise. 
> 
> Note that I didn’t actually write out everything that happened in the movie. I presume if you’re reading the fic that you saw the movie and can fill in the other parts on your own. If you’ve seen the movie and are still missing parts, though... let me know and I’ll try and fill in the gaps. ^^ Movie scenes duplicated around each missing scene, including actions and dialog. No plagiarism is intended, but merely a setup for character thoughts and the missing scenes. If you need more details for what is movie and what is mine, let me know and I’ll highlight out the particulars.
> 
> (FYI, the rescue scene at the start varies slightly from the movie... I started to write it as the movie version, but research made it more feasible to switch. See post notes for details.)
> 
> I want more movie, darn it.
> 
> \-- There are three separate scenes and actions here, and I was originally going to publish them all together, but then I thought it would run better if I did them a chapter at a time. Don’t worry, this won’t be an ongoing wip. The other two will be along as soon as there’s enough time to absorb the one before. ^^

# Saying Thank You

Shivering, Napoleon staggered across the dock, being thankful that everybody’s attention was on the mad Russian driving circles in the water. He was too tired from swimming that far to do as much evasive maneuvering as he should. 

A quick glance showed some cargo rigs lined up and ready for the shipping to start in the morning. He went to the one in front, planning to break in, but the cab door was open. Sitting for a moment, Napoleon caught his breath. Then he considered that an unlocked truck was probably due to the habits of workers doing a standard job, day after day, no need for security because the security was on the outside. And in a standard world where people felt safe and comfortable... Napoleon lowered the driver visor and sure enough, the keys dropped down. He grinned – habits were a wonderful thing. And he now had the beginnings of a plan for either diversion or rescue as needed. Keeping an eye on the small boat dashing to and fro in the water, with the larger ship following and using an enormous amount of firepower with very little effect, Napoleon started the engine and turned up the heat. 

Wincing at the loud, bouncy music the radio was set to, Napoleon set out finding a station he approved of. The second station tugged at him, but not right for the moment, maybe another time. Ah... the third had Italian mood music, perfect. 

He eyed the water. The mad Russian was still playing tag with the shipping guards. That was a _lot_ of fire power for a supposedly simple shipping company, even a rich one. If they hadn’t known already, it would be obvious that the company was a front for illegal activities just from the artillery alone. 

_Come on, Peril. I’m out of the water already... time for you to make a break._ Napoleon dried off his face and then noticed that the cloth had hidden a breakfast feast, complete with wine. He so loved Italians for their foresight. He might as well have a snack while waiting for the Russian to—. 

Okay. That was unexpected.

Napoleon watched the small boat go up in flames, tilting slowly into the water as it lost buoyancy. He couldn’t see what happened to the blonde giant that had been steering it. Had he been hit or burned? Or gotten off right before? Though Napoleon had been watching for that and didn’t see any indication Kuryakin had dove off. Saving that scenario, next best would be simply thrown out of the boat without any additional wounds. But with the back of the boat exploding like that, the concussive blast would likely have knocked anybody on it unconscious.

Grimly, Napoleon put the truck in gear and maneuvered it into position while he continued to scan the waters. The people on the larger ship were doing the same, with their guns pointed towards the water, ready to fire. It was both good and bad that none of them could spot any emerging bodies. 

Involuntarily, the odds kept calculating in his mind. He didn’t really want to know them right now, but it was habit and instinctive. He refused, however, to let odds rule his actions. Instead, he kept in mind where the boat had first gone down and how slowly a body might sink. At least he didn’t have to worry about tides or currents in the sheltered harbor. 

In the back of his mind was also the thought that he didn’t have to. That the odds were such that... No. He wasn’t going to give those thoughts any legitimacy. They went in together, and they would go out together. He usually worked alone, but he wasn’t alone tonight, and wouldn’t be leaving alone either. Playing the odds was something he usually did well – and dealers didn’t always notice when he counted cards. He had no objections to stacking things in his favor when odds were down – that was just playing smart. Luck had its factor, but it helped to minimize the other factors for the better chance.

 _Now._ Napoleon put the truck into gear and accelerated. Nobody had been watching the yard, with everybody convinced that the intruders were on the boat. That made it easy to put his plan into action without interference from the guards. They couldn’t realign their guns fast enough, and shortly they had other things to worry about.

 _Crazy, stubborn Russian._ Napoleon kept his attention focused on the water as the ship went down. He had to have this angle exact in order to have the slightest chance of pulling it off. So much water. So many things that could have happened that he didn’t know about. If the KGB agent had been conscious when he went in the water and tried to swim initially... this wouldn’t work. If he’d been thrown off at an angle, this wouldn’t work. If—. It had to work.

Water was lapping at the truck door now. Napoleon rolled up the window and returned his focus to the water as they went under, peering through the highlighted depths, hoping the truck’s headlights would last long enough. He was looking for a blonde giant in black clothes, though the blonde would be brown in this water. So, a dark shape through murky water, with maybe a pale face if it could be seen. 

Unhelpful images flashed through his mind, memories of the other in all his aspects. First sight, in a mirror at the check point – a distraction that Napoleon had fallen for. Then a face he had shot at, before the KGB agent had taken any action at all. As an agent, he had no regrets for the precipitous act. As a person... he was glad Kuryakin had ducked, though he still wondered how he could possibly have reacted faster than bullets. After they were out of the water, he’d have to ask.

Deeper. They were getting to the limits of both the truck’s battery and Napoleon’s ability to hold his breath on the way back up. Soon. He had to be there. Napoleon clenched the steering wheel tightly. More images. Fighting, wounding with words, arguing over fashion and being beaten for the first time. Teasing the stoic Red Peril became a new favorite hobby, almost more intriguing than the mission. Then this night. They both worked alone. But somehow... they worked together as well.

There. Right exactly where he should be. Sinking slowly down, no movement in the body at all – only the hair drifting slightly in the water. There could be no time for any relief or worry now, there could be only action at this point. The lights had to last just a moment more. Napoleon had to hold his breath just that far.

Contact. Wrap his arms around the body, grab for a towing position. No time to try and evaluate for anything else. Was he carrying a body to the surface, or a man? A man. It had to be a man. _”Loving your work, Cowboy.”_ It was Napoleon’s mistake that had gotten them here. It had to be a man.

Up. How much further up? _”Is not the Russian way!”_ And yet, he had done as Napoleon asked, to the point of losing a precious keepsake. Honestly, who _wore_ a precious keepsake on a mission? The rare things Napoleon had of value were nowhere near his person. He refused to think of what he had in his arms now.

Up. Was that surface or illusion above? His lungs were burning, his arms dragging down with the weight they held. Napoleon refused to let go, pushing further and further up. _”Is this what you call sleeping on it?”_ The Russian had shown no signs of surprise when Napoleon had walked up. None at all. 

Surface. Napoleon exhaled the stale air and heaved in a great lungful of fresh. There was no action from the other. He couldn’t even tell pulse, his own body was so cold at this point. Napoleon held them still for a long few moments, using the time to check to see if their emergence was noticed, and also to monitor any response from the person he held.

Nothing. From either. The surface was too scattered and frantic with the dramatic action of truck on ship and busy rescuing those guards still thrashing around. They hadn’t noticed the relatively quiet emergence of Napoleon and his prize, especially as Napoleon had gambled on an angle going up. Unfortunately, though, there was also no movement within his grasp. No struggling, no breathing. Nothing.

Switching grips, Napoleon maneuvered until they were face to face. The blonde hair was plastered flat, the blue eyes were hidden behind closed lids. There was no glaring, no tensing to fight, no little glint of humor, no readiness to guard Napoleon’s back. Napoleon brought them together until he could put his lips over Illya’s and breathed air into lungs that weren’t working.

Then he kicked out sideways and swam quietly towards an unused dock. The pilings were closer, but he wouldn’t be able to get Illya out that way – the water-logged giant Russian was too much mass for him to haul straight up. Every few strokes, he breathed for his partner again. He worked alone, and he was used to the fickle fortunes of war, but he wouldn’t give up until he had to. He wouldn’t believe anything but hope until there was nothing left. He breathed for Illya and kept swimming.

Half-way there, the body he was holding gave a sudden jerk and then there was coughing. Loud coughing.

“Quiet!” Napoleon hissed, relieved and worried both. He shifted grips again so Illya wouldn’t take him down if he tried to grab or lash out. “Follow me.” He counted on the combination of orders to get through to a trained hind-brain reflex, even if thinking wasn’t all the way there yet. It worked, as Illya turned sideways to cough one last time, then concentrated on breathing and swimming. Not doing all that well at either, but it was better than the scary nothing of before.

Now with a semi-conscious Russian, Napoleon changed his direction again for the pilings. Even half-drowned, he was sure that Kuryakin could make it up. The man was super-agent, after all. Able to chase after and catch speeding cars and scale walls barehanded after dodging bullets he shouldn’t have known were coming. Surely he could climb one little dock piling.

Up, and over, and dashing to a temporary safety. With every step, the KGB agent was looking more alert, though he stayed close on Napoleon’s heels and didn’t speak. Napoleon for his part kept a close eye on Illya and didn’t go faster than he could stagger.

The shipping yard was lit up like Christmas. Running figures, spotlights, flashing red lights, alarms and shouting everywhere. While the agents had been swimming, the guards had gone through the trucking rigs, tracing back from Napoleon’s stolen one. Which was just perfect as they were unlikely to check again for awhile. Napoleon quickly checked them himself, then randomly chose the fourth back. The cargo flaps were lose already, probably in preparation for loading in the morning. He pulled a corner up and gestured Illya inside, following him in and lowering the flap again until they were sitting in the dark. 

Inside, there were a few moments of quiet while they both caught their breaths. Breathing could be loud when there was silence, but not when there were alarms belting out everywhere outside.

Napoleon’s eyes started adjusting to the near-dark. The canvas that comprised the roof and sides of the van was leak-proof and fairly light proof too, but there was some light leaked in at the flap and on the edges. Weighing the options and deciding there was little risk and more benefit, he pulled his knife out of his thigh sheath and stood up and cut a few slits in the top. This gave them more light inside, with little risk of being seen from the outside.

“We need... to go...” Illya stuttered out, his arms wrapping around himself. A gesture more felt than seen, an outline of a body, but one thankfully moving. He started coughing again, weakly.

“In a minute,” Napoleon whispered. “Let them go by us first until there’s a path.” If they tried going out immediately, they’d be caught for certain. 

For the moment, there was something else they needed to take care of. “Are you hurt?”

The Russian made a baffled noise of inquiry. Napoleon couldn’t help thinking it sounded rather adorable. “Were you shot? Wounded?”

Illya shook his head, then kept shaking it. “Don’t know, don’t remember. What happened?”

“They got the engine and it blew up, taking you down with the boat.” Napoleon kept it succinct, while he reached out to divest Illya of some of his clothes. It wasn’t all that unusual for agents or soldiers not to notice little things like bullets or other wounds when there was so much else to concentrate on. Blocking pain was habit for them during action. He himself had, more than once, not realized he’d been hit until later. With the amount of gunfire aimed at the small boat, it would be a miracle if the other agent hadn’t been struck at all, even though there were no immediate signs of it. 

His hands stuck on Illya’s jacket, and impatiently Napoleon stripped his gloves off. Deciding he needed the extra mobility, he stripped his own jacket off as well, along with the gun harness. There was an absence of a familiar weight at his back, and he mourned the loss of his tools in the escape. The electronics in particular had been expensive, and not always on the CIA budget, but his lock pick tools... those were going to be very hard to replace. He took a quick inventory of what he had left and sighed quietly. He would have to visit one of his safe-houses when this was over. Too much had disappeared or would be useless now with the soaking and he’d have to pull from his back-ups. His gun was waterlogged, but once it dried, it should be okay. He pulled out the magazine and laid the pieces on the floor to dry best they could in the short time they’d be there. With that thought in mind, he also took out his knife and laid it down next to the gun.

When he was free of gloves and jacket, he reached again for Illya. The Russian had been working on his own jacket, but hadn’t gotten far, his movements weak and uncoordinated. Now that they were at rest, the great strength that had kept the agent moving was petering out, even if his alertness level was rising rapidly.

The jacket was heavier than it should be, and Napoleon ran a hand over it. It felt like the other agent kept more of his tools in pockets inside his jacket rather than on a belt harness like Napoleon normally did. That explained why the jacket was so bulky and shapeless when on him – it was practicality rather than an avoidance of fashion.

Without the jacket, Illya moved a little easier. He took off his own gun harness and put it on the other side from where Napoleon had laid his, stripping the magazine similarly. He reached for his waist and then made a sound.

“What?” Napoleon asked. It hadn’t sounded like pain, but one couldn’t always tell.

“Lost my other gun,” Illya muttered, then coughed again. After a moment, he reached down his leg and pulled his own knife out, laying it beside the gun.

They were both field agents, but it still made Napoleon grin to think of how equally equipped they both were. They had their specialties, and the basics, and there they were. Opposites, yet matching.

With another moment’s pause, Illya reached for the side of the truck and then slowly leaned against it, sitting with his legs tucked sideways under him, as if it was too much trouble to straighten out.

That made Napoleon worry all over again about him, and he remembered the original point to this. He moved closer, kneeling next to Illya and reached for the bottom of Illya’s turtleneck. 

Moving faster than he ought, Illya’s hands caught Napoleon’s, and he opened his eyes and glared. The glare wasn’t quite as effective in the low light as it was in the day, but then, Napoleon had never paid it much mind anyhow.

“Can’t see through that black sweater of yours. Need to check if you’ve been hurt.” 

Illya acquiesced with a capitulating sigh, which concerned Napoleon more than the rest of it. Though the other agent should know just as well as he did that it was only practical.

Practical... with a bit of fun. The wet turtleneck clinging to wet body was particularly tricky to get off. It was a wonderful, legitimate reason to have his hands close in, running over the Russian’s muscled torso, around the waist where he pulled the sweater from the pants, front and back.

Napoleon paused as his exploring hands hit the shape of a kit tucked at the back of Illya’s waist. He’d thought most of Illya’s tools were in his jacket – it had been heavy enough when he was taking it off. He figured out where the band tied in and unhooked it. It was a familiar sort of... _wait a second_.

“These are my tools!” Napoleon exclaimed in delight as he unwrapped the pouch and checked to make sure.

There was another cough from beside him. “They looked... Did not look easily replaceable. Not standard issue.” A pause. “Lost the rest, sorry.”

They weren’t standard issue at all, and a good set of lock picks took years to craft and lots of knowing the right people to obtain them. He could kiss the Russian for packing them up and keeping them safe instead of just tossing them to one side as they ran.

Illya coughed again and that hurriedly recalled Napoleon to his original task. Again. He wasn’t used to having partners. He put the kit next to his gun and then went back to working on Illya’s turtleneck. The wet fabric clung like a second skin. And what really wonderful skin it was, lean and tight, muscles layered over bone without too much extra.

“Thought you’d been hit.” Illya’s voice was low and deep as his hands worked the edge of the sweater next to Napoleon’s, their movements crossing along the way.

“Me?” Napoleon was slightly distracted with the slide of his fingers over Illya’s body, and their fingers intertwining periodically. He had to keep reminding himself what the actual goal was – to get the sweater off Illya without getting himself killed by an angry Russian.

“I did not see, but gunfire raked the seat and you were gone.”

Pausing his hands, Napoleon’s eyebrows went up. Illya hadn’t been running in circles to buy him time? Then what had that been about? But shot didn’t always mean dead – Illya likely had been calculating for extra time if Napoleon had been wounded and slow, keeping the chase going that much longer. And depending on _where_ Illya thought he’d gone into the water, the swim could have been further. No wonder Illya had kept circling for so long. “No, I fell off at the turn after the third gate. No bullets.”

“Oh.” Illya’s voice paused and Napoleon could picture... no, he couldn’t picture what might be on Illya’s face. If only there was a bit more light! “Oh. That... that is good.” There was real relief in his voice.

A bit more than simply mission-continuance relief at that. Napoleon wondered, though he couldn’t say the Russian hadn’t grown on him too in the short time they’d been working together. He resumed moving his hands upward and was finally able to tug the turtleneck over Illya’s head, though for a moment it seemed as if the folds of wet fuzzy black cloth were going to asphyxiate him again. Well, if it did, Napoleon could always give him rescue breathing again.

Illya was coughing again after the sweater finally came off, though he tried to keep them quiet and shallow. It was unfortunate that they weren’t yet safe where he could just get it out of his system. A nice hot cup of coffee would also do the trick. Or tea as they had mostly here in Europe. God, Napoleon missed his coffee sometimes when he wasn’t in places that had imported it for Americans.

Napoleon sat back on his heels and looked at Illya, but other than now a pale blur of a torso where before there had only been a bare outline of a body, there wasn’t any way to tell if Illya had been hurt. There just wasn’t enough light to see, not really. Leaning forward again, Napoleon reached out and ran his hands over Illya’s torso, feeling up and down, checking. Illya’s coughing stopped abruptly as he stilled his breath and almost all movement at the touch.

“Checking for bullets,” Napoleon murmured, reassuring even as his hands slipped up and down and over, and stroked over the collarbone...

Okay. That wasn’t a checking movement. Napoleon pulled his hands back to himself before they got him shot by an irate KGB agent. Though Illya’s gun was as waterlogged as his own right now. The Russian didn’t need guns, though, with his wrestling skills. For a wistful moment, Napoleon remembered the strong body holding him close, arms wrapped tightly around him. Okay, it was in a neck lock and he’d been in danger of having his spine snapped at the time, but try telling that to his raging libido at the moment. 

That was the problem with pauses in missions – way too much adrenalin and nowhere for it to go. Not usually an issue when he was by himself, but give him an attractive partner and his hands running over said attractive partner, and...

“Sorry, there’s just not enough light,” Napoleon apologized.

“Somehow, I think that is not your problem,” Illya muttered. Then he shook his head. “Is okay. Go ahead. Can’t feel.”

The other agent probably knew as well as he did the problems of being wounded and not knowing it. Between the shock of the explosion, the drowning, and the chill and cough, Illya was in no shape to self-diagnose anything right now.

With a firm command to his libido, Napoleon reached out again, this time taking a grip on himself and mentally stepping back a few feet before he touched again. 

This time, he managed to focus better, reminding himself that if he didn’t find out where the Russian was hit, he would bleed out and then all his work at rescuing him from drowning would be moot.

Starting with the front, Napoleon placed one hand on Illya’s left shoulder and then slowly ran the edge of his other palm down Illya’s body in a firm steady stroke, making sure there were no gaps between Illya and himself. He could feel every definition of Illya’s body, from the slight swell over his pectoral to the raised pebbly nipple down over the ribs... he paused at one point, feeling a distinct roughness of the skin.

“Scar,” Illya said quietly, his breathing sounding better, if still not quite steady yet.

It didn’t feel fresh. With a nod, Napoleon continued, lighting his pressure as he got to under the ribcage so not to hurt the organs underneath. Though with as much muscle as Illya had, there was a good chance a bullet would just bounce off instead. At the waistline, he stopped, having to fight the temptation to go a little deeper...

Clearing his throat, he brought his hand back up again and placed it another hands width over, directly under Illya’s own throat. He could feel Illya swallow. Then Napoleon repeated the movement, stopping a couple of times more to check additional rough spots, but they were just more scars. Scars... and a smattering of wet chest hair. There had been some on the side as well, but the middle was a little denser and there was a trail of it that went straight down... oh, those abdomen muscles were well, well defined indeed. 

Illya flinched when Napoleon reached the belly button and below, and Napoleon stopped and explored with fingers. He hadn’t felt anything himself, but he probed all the same, spreading his fingers out and feeling with the tips... Illya flinched again, this time with a slight yipping noise added in, then he brought his hand up and grasped Napoleon’s firmly, stopping the exploration. 

After a moment, Illya let go of Napoleon’s hand. “No wound, check other side,” Illya muttered, sounding slightly strangled.

Napoleon paused, then had to choke back a laugh – it seemed his partner was ticklish. That was unexpected, and rather funny. He would have to exploit it at a later point.

Then a third time for the right side... Napoleon got all the way down this time with no interruptions, being more used to the feel of the scars and not encountering anything else. 

He frowned, then ran a quick second check, this time with the pads of his fingers going from side to side in a sweep across Illya’s body. 

Other than a sucked-in gasp when Napoleon started the second check, Illya didn’t move. He wasn’t coughing anymore, though his breathing was coming deep and harsh.

“Huh,” Napoleon finally said. “No wounds on the front. Hold a moment and I’ll get the back.” Considering the angle of gunfire, back was more likely at that. He probably should have checked there first.

Illya didn’t say anything, and Napoleon took that as basic permission. He moved around until he was behind him. Then Illya startled Napoleon by moving. Napoleon held still until he knew what the Russian was doing. But the other agent was merely shifted so he wasn’t leaning against the side of the truck anymore, and instead settled into a cross-legged sitting pose. He was definitely moving easier, and his breathing sounded better too. That raised Napoleon’s hopes that maybe there was an extra quotient of luck out there and they’d gotten through it unscathed. 

He still had to check. Napoleon put his hands under each of Illya’s armpits, the other man raising his arms slightly for him as he did so. Then leaving his left hand where it was, Napoleon ran his right hand down Illya’s side, palm flat and fingers curving around to mold to the Russian’s body. 

Illya made a strangled sound again, but didn’t move.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow and smirked, knowing he couldn’t be seen. That wasn’t like the other sound before. This sound was a bit more familiar to him. Well, Napoleon would be the same if somebody was running their hands all over _him_. It was interesting, though, that a KGB agent would be susceptible. Guess he was human after all.

Before he could get lost in speculation, Napoleon moved on to the left side. Then in across the back in another searching pattern. 

There were more scars on Illya’s back. He couldn’t tell what they were from feel alone, but some were puckered, some were edged and straight, and then there was some that were barely felt but were long and fairly centered in the middle. Napoleon dearly wanted to see them in the light, wondering what the stories were behind them. Not that the light alone would get him the stories. 

Scars... but no fresh wounds. And the fact that he was feeling the scars meant that he would have felt anything else as well. 

Huh.

He absently kept running his hands over Illya’s back as he thought about the rest. Illya had been moving too well to have a leg injury. Seated as he was in the boat, legs wouldn’t have been the first line of target anyhow. Head wounds... he would have noticed a head wound when they were climbing up the pilings. Their route had been extremely well lit, and Napoleon had been keeping a close eye on his shaky partner as he made his way up.

Somehow, Illya had got out of that maelstrom of gunfire and explosion intact. One lucky bastard. Other than being drowned, but he wasn’t any more so that didn’t count. Napoleon cleared his throat. “No wounds. Looks like you just got knocked out from the blast.” He’d have to watch for concussion symptoms, though the other agent seemed to be fairly alert now. 

There was a long pause and Napoleon wondered if Illya had heard him.

Then Illya reached up so his hand rested on top of one of Napoleon’s that was resting on his shoulder. He covered it for a long moment, still silent. “Thank you,” he finally said, quietly, his voice gruff but sincere. “For rescuing me. Thank you.”

The hand that was trapped was tingling, the blood running through it. Illya’s large hand completely covered his. With a blush that Napoleon knew couldn’t be seen, he waved his free hand in the air, dismissing any praise. “No problem, Peril. Next time I’m drowning, you can pull me out. Deal?”

The smile was in Illya’s voice. “Deal, Cowboy.” 

They sat there together for a moment quietly. Illya didn’t move and Napoleon didn’t rescue his hand, letting it stay trapped.

As they sat there, the sounds outside made their way in. It was still chaos outside, apparently. With sirens and shouts, though there was no more gunfire at least. It all sounded fairly remote, moving outward towards the walls, and overlooking the vans in their midst.

“We have to get back,” Illya said after awhile. 

“I know,” Napoleon said grimly. He’d been trying not to think too much about it. 

“Our covers... They were never happy with architect for me. They might have gotten good look at us, enough for description.”

“I know,” Napoleon said again. “And there I was yesterday, bragging to her about how good a thief I was. That’s going to bite me on the ass, big time.” The alarm was a stupid, stupid mistake.

“Am sorry about fight, now.” Illya sighed.

Napoleon snorted. “What _was_ that all about? Honestly – three pampered rich boys and you had nothing better to do than beat them up?”

A shrug had Illya’s body moving deliciously up and down – he could feel it in his hand that was still under Illya’s, and he was leaning close enough to get a residual feel out of the movement. He wished he was plastered more closely over Illya’s back... but he’d take what he could get for now.

There was a short pause before Illya answered. “They were... bullies. Using influence and numbers to intimidate. Attitude better than others. Above all, I despise bullies.” Another pause. “But truly did have soft bones. Didn’t think arm would break.”

In spite of himself, Napoleon laughed. He didn’t really like bullies either, and all things considered, Illya hadn’t hurt them that badly. For a man supposedly with psychotic episodes, the Russian controlled himself quite well. Anger issues, yes – but psychotic? Of course, Napoleon knew what was written on his own evaluation sheet and considered most of it crap with only slivers of truth, so who knew what was truly inside Illya’s skin. It made Napoleon itch to try and figure it out. A mystery, wrapped within beauty and strength. Not perfection – perfection would be boring – but a very real being to explore. Too bad they didn’t have a lot of time. From long practice, Napoleon knew his partner would not be an easy safe to crack. Alarms weren’t even the start of the defenses around the Russian, and Napoleon wasn’t sure what tools would be the best to use.

“How long must we wait?” Illya’s hand tightened briefly upon his own.

Not moving was the hardest part of a mission sometimes. Now that they were sure Illya was okay, they had to plan the getting out. Napoleon tried to check his watch, and then realized it was on the wrist under Illya’s hand. He tried craning his head, but couldn’t see it. Finally, he pulled his hand out from under Illya’s, carefully ignoring the slight noise the other agent made as he did so.

His watch was one he’d modified himself. He tended to buy the fancy ones that would go well with his suits, then alter them in little ways most people wouldn’t notice. Like putting a touch of radium on the hands and twelve mark so he could see it in the dark. His army-issued watch and compass in the war had been invaluable in night raids and he didn’t mind carrying a good idea over. The watch was also completely sealed for the occasional dunking and was still working. If he was right about their timing and the time it would take the guards to clear the area... “Ten minutes.”

Illya twisted around to look, his hand reaching out to hold Napoleon’s wrist as he studied the watch. Then he grunted. “Tritium is safer. Switch to that next time.”

Napoleon blinked. “How can you even tell...?”

He felt more than saw Illya’s smile. “You were army. Tritium is newer.” He let go of Napoleon’s wrist. “We could go south side and make our way back.”

Napoleon could sympathize with wanting to leave now. But even if they went out the other end, they would still have to contend with the guards, and it would be more running around for nothing. It would take them the whole ten minutes just to make their way out there and back. Instead of pointing out something that the other agent knew well, he said instead, “We should have enough time. The Vinciguerras live a ways away, and the security here will need to contact them, and then they will have to come and review before they start after us, if they do connect us with it.” 

They should have enough time, but still, it was going to be tight. There were many factors involved and minutes counted. Given what they’d already seen of the response and sheer numbers of guards, though, there was no way they could make it out at the moment – not without a lot of luck, and they’d already used a lot of that tonight. 

He couldn’t help his eyes tracking along Illya’s pale body, with Illya now in front of him again. Illya was looking and sounding much better than he had, though, they were only a short time out of the water. Involuntarily, he reached out to draw a hand gently down Illya’s arm. He hadn’t checked the arms for wounds. “You should rest.” 

Then he worried that he’d overstepped – that adrenaline again – and he moved backwards, putting some distance between them. He bumped up against the side of the truck, and leaned back against it with a sigh. He hadn’t drowned, but he’d swam half the length of the port once, then again while hauling Illya up. He wasn’t, though, very tired. Not right now. The adrenaline had him hyped up and almost vibrating, chafing under the wait. He just couldn’t risk himself so close to Illya anymore. Not without the excuse of checking for wounds.

Illya turned to face him, then crawled to the flap and looked outside. His hands opened and clenched while Napoleon watched the outline of his body. Napoleon wondered if he would leave anyhow, despite logic and the abuse his drowned partner had just been through. Waiting was the hardest part on any mission. 

The Russian was thinking so loudly that Napoleon could almost hear him. Too bad it was in a foreign language. 

“Possibly,” Illya finally said, answering the statement Napoleon had made some time back. Then he moved around in the truck and stretched out, reclining on his side with his head on Napoleon’s lap, face towards his body.

Napoleon froze. Since they’d gotten in the truck, his fight or flight adrenaline had been focused instead on Illya, taking the third option of fight, flight, or fuck. He’d been at half-mast for some time what with his wandering hands and thoughts, and now Illya’s head was right on the center of his lap. There was no way he hadn’t felt the way Napoleon’s jemson had jumped when he’d rested on it, nor how hard he was now. 

Cautiously, Napoleon looked to where the knife was lying. It was within arm’s reach from Illya’s current resting spot. He had better be very careful here. 

But time went by and there was no reaction from Illya, just the weight of his head and a stillness that was a practiced rest rather than a real rest. If Illya was ignoring it, then perhaps it was okay. Napoleon breathed again and relaxed. With his relaxation, Illya also eased. 

Hmmm. That was interesting. And there had been those sounds from earlier...

Daringly, Napoleon brought his hand over to touch Illya’s hair. If asked, he could say there was seaweed in it. 

Illya didn’t ask. Just tilted his head in a manner that encouraged more. So Napoleon did, stroking through the slowly drying strands of smooth hair.

He was concentrating so hard on controlling his physical reactions to having Illya on his lap and being allowed to play with his hair, that Napoleon missed the first light strokes on his hips. It wasn’t until his sweater was lifted and hands went under to bare skin that he realized he wasn’t the only player in action.

“Ah,” Napoleon breathed in, holding other noises as large hands stroked him. One settled over his right hipbone, lightly holding him, while the other wandered up his abdomen, fingers spread to maximize touch. Delightful, lovely touch, that was sending currents through his whole body. As calloused fingertips drifted over his nipples, he sucked in a breath, and let his head tilt against the wall. A light pinch had him squirming, but the hand on his hip and weight upon his lap held him still.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one with problems with pauses during missions. 

And while Napoleon had been running his hands over Illya... Illya was the one who had been being caressed that whole time. Perhaps... maybe they were on the same page here.

He glanced down to try and meet his partner’s gaze, but Illya wasn’t looking up at him. Instead, his attention was focused more immediately... The hand that had been wandering came back down as Illya shifted his head to make room.

“Oh.” Napoleon thought maybe he should stop this, maybe he should ask, but there was a large hand cupping him through his pants and it was hard to concentrate on anything else. All the physical reactions he’d been denying himself while he thought it was one-sided were now coming to the fore and he was desperate for the touch. Even outside his pants, it felt good. Very, very good.

Illya made a noise of contentment and satisfaction, the fingers of the hand on Napoleon’s hip stroking in time with the movements he made with his other. A gentle kneading that was going to drive him crazy if the Russian kept that up. Gentle was less than what he wanted right now, and yet it was so much more than he’d thought he could get.

“Peril?” Napoleon was asking before he knew he was going to. The nickname was automatic, falling from his lips with a soft affection and none of the underlying barbs he usually gave to it. Napoleon wondered when that might have happened. Probably underwater, while he was thinking of other things.

“Words are inadequate for _‘thank you’_ ,” Illya said, his attention and eyes finally turning up. “This is better.” He unbuttoned Napoleon’s slacks and slid the zipper down. 

Napoleon traced the edges of Illya’s cheekbones, lightly running his finger over his ear ridge, then going over to touch lightly on the scar before down to brush lightly over his lips, then down to the jawbone. It was delightful to be allowed to do this touching, and for more than just checking for wounds. “Is this the Russian way?” Teasing was automatic for him, and he smiled at the memory.

There was a general pause in all action, Illya’s movements stilling even as he finally had Napoleon in hand. His body shifted modes for a moment and Napoleon could see the KGB agent again, only then realizing that aspect had been missing for awhile. Then Illya relaxed with a snort. “No. If Soviet Union saw this, there would be bullets. This is Cowboy special.” He said the last with an honest to god actual grin, easy and given freely.

Napoleon swallowed, more affected by that grin than he liked to admit. Not to mention the thrill that went through him at ‘Cowboy Special’. “Well, I’m honored.”

“You should be. No more talking,” Illya returned his attention downward, and rolled over for a better angle. “Mouth has better things to do.”

There wasn’t really any arguing with that. Napoleon shut his eyes and tilted his head back as Illya turned words to action, licking at the bare head while his hand held the shaft. Napoleon was used to having to be quiet in certain situations, but there was something about this that wanted more noise. Instead, he moved his hand to the back of Illya’s head, tangling his fingers in the wet hair. His other hand, he rested on top of the one Illya had on his hip.

Illya was a tease. He was also very, very good. Alternating his licking with periodic forays to take the head into his mouth, sucking with what was initially too much force but then quickly adjusting to Napoleon’s favorite with god knew what cues Napoleon was giving him. The attention swelled him rapidly to full hardness, but the large Russian hand was able to cover the rest of him easily. An advantage of male partners that Napoleon didn’t have often, and he savored the sensation.

All the adrenaline had pushed his senses into overload now, with the third option in play, heightening his awareness of every move, every tug, every lick. The hand a confident grip easy around him. The tongue, wet and slightly rough. The slight graze of teeth periodically before the tongue reclaimed position. It was taking all his will power to hold still. The position he was in wasn’t the best for thrusting and that was probably for the best – he didn’t want to choke his partner. It was the perfect position for pure delight, with everything focused on him. Sometimes Illya would swallow, and Napoleon could feel himself leaking all the more and rapidly spiraling high.

Not taking much action himself was having an adverse effect on his control over his voice. It didn’t take too much before Napoleon had to reclaim the hand not in Illya’s hair and use it to bite on a finger to keep his sounds muffled. Even with guards out everywhere, it was impossible to keep quiet. Breathing was loud, licks got moans, swallows got gasps and cries, teeth got hisses that were near pleas for more. At least biting down hid those. It was good they hadn’t shut off the sirens outside yet.

Illya used the opportunity to move his own hand from hip to Napoleon’s thigh, bracing himself more securely so he could raise himself up. His other hand left its comfortable warm spot that Napoleon regretted before he figured out what the other was doing.

Then there was sliding. Delicious, wonderful, sensuous sliding with a little more going deeper each time Illya went down. Napoleon spared a brief thought to wonder if this was okay on Illya’s throat after all the coughing, but the thought quickly disappeared in the sensation. “Ah!” The sound slipped out before he could bite it off. But how was anybody supposed to _think_ with sliding going on? Warm, wet, and even tight at the deeper ends. Things his body wanted more of the more he got it.

It was hard not tighten his grip on Illya’s hair and just push him down, take control of the rhythm. But control would be nothing more than a lie, and there was a thrill in having somebody else set the pace, the tempo, the things he wouldn’t have done, the things he couldn’t do to himself. The pleasure freely given – and by _Illya_ of all people...

Napoleon’s eyes were closed as he came closer and closer to the edge, waiting for that moment that would take him over...

There was a pop of pressure as Illya pulled off, and then they were back to licking again. Napoleon gasped around his finger, a small muted mewling sound of disappointment that was quickly turned into a moan for the continuation of other pleasures. The dizzying heights were one thing, but the lower altitude had so much additional to offer. This round of licking was accompanied with one of the hands exploring more – tracing circles at the base, gently rolling the skin of his balls, reaching further back as well, stroking that part just behind, and generally driving him wild. His skin was so sensitive right now that every little movement had him bucking for more.

With a swallow, he pulled his knuckle out of his mouth and gulped down air. Control was almost nowhere to be found anymore. “Peril,” he intoned the nickname with shades of everything but the warning the word normally was. “Illya...”

“Shhhh...” The gentling sound echoed up as the breath covered his sensitive skin. 

Napoleon had to do _something_. He settled for stroking Illya’s hair, and along his back. Concentrating on that to take himself one step away from exploding. Beneath him, he felt Illya arching into the touch, and he felt a rumbling sound on his skin.

Another breath, then there was an absence of mouth, letting cooler air tickle over his skin. There was sound of licking, though not on him, then Illya’s large, calloused hand took over, going up and down the whole way... rubbing at his balls at the bottom of the movement, almost pulling off at the top, before repeating again. The callouses added an extra dimension to the sensations, and the grip only needed a couple of minor adjustments for the right combination of pulling and sliding, large hand sure and confident. Not his own hand, but a hand adept at giving him pleasure. Those same cues he wasn’t sure he was giving directed the speed as well, settling on a madding rhythm that was just slightly slower than he wanted.

With the hand in play, Illya’s mouth moved to Napoleon’s balls, sucking the skin gently in and releasing it, over and over again. Then he licked up the direct middle, along the seam there. Rather quickly, Napoleon had to bring his hand up again, biting down hard to hold in what would have been a near scream. No screaming. Not with guards all around them. Some thank you – Illya was going to kill him instead. A strangled sound that wasn’t quite a scream still made it through his hand.

There was another low hum of pleasure below that was felt more than heard, and then the tongue made its way back up again, hand switching as they went.

Napoleon tasted blood on his finger and swallowed the dark iron taste. If they weren’t in the back of a truck in the middle of an escape, he would throw the other agent over at this point and show him he could do just as good. But for now... for now he hung on and reveled in every sensation – a hedonistic pleasure whore, just as the Western systems were supposed to be. If he had the name, he might as well take full advantage, and Illya seemed determined to give him everything.

The head went in Illya’s mouth again, and this time there was exploration with the tongue, not just the basic movements. There were also sound vibrations, though Napoleon had no clue what, if anything, was being said. It just all travelled up from root to spine and overwhelmed the thinking part of the brain completely.

This time, when Illya swallowed, it was the end.

Slumping over Illya, his arms in a loose grasp around him, it took Napoleon a little while to come back to coherent thought again. 

When he finally straightened up, he looked down to meet bright eyes glinting up at him. Illya had rolled over after swallowing, one hand still wrapped gently around Napoleon’s now limp and smaller penis, keeping it warm without more stimulation.

“Sorry about that,” Napoleon managed a wry grin. “I meant to warn you...”

Illya blinked, his smile fading as he parsed the words. Then the bright look returned as he quietly laughed. “No. Was good. Old remedy for sore throats.”

Napoleon snorted softly, his hands stroking down Illya’s chest. His thoughts turned to next steps, his fingers reveling in the expanse of skin and imagining how much he could explore. “Your turn now?”

Illya shook his head, then reluctantly let go of Napoleon, rolling off him. “No more time. We have to go.”

Oh, that was right. Escape.

“Beside. That was _your_ thank you.” Illya grinned wickedly. “Cowboy special.”

That grin truly had him melting. He hadn’t known it could exist inside the stoic KGB agent, though there had been the hints with the wry mocking and glints of humor. Definitely something to be explored more later on.

“If you insist.” As he set himself to rights, Napoleon glanced out at the quieter compound. It truly was time to go. “For now.” There would have to be some point in the future where Napoleon could return the favor, and he definitely looked forward to it. For now... back to the mission.

 

... ... ...

* * *

End Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia note - second button on the radio was a brief portion of the original Man From UNCLE theme song. :)
> 
> I can’t call it the Heimlich maneuver! That wasn’t coined until 1974. But it had to be used before... just not described, probably. Wait... um, actually, you’re *not* supposed to use it on drowning victims – the guidelines warn against it in fact. Um, oops, because Napoleon definitely *did* use it. Twice. (You’re not even supposed to use it for choking anymore either -_-) {checks other websites} Oh yeah, no Heimlichs for drowning. Massive warnings all over about that. And you can’t use CPR underwater – it’s ineffective. You’re supposed to get a person to the ground and then do CPR/chest compressions. Though you can start rescue breathing right away. Dilemma. Use reality in the fic, or use the movie actions and perpetuate a first aid myth? O.o Well... You know, reality is actually slashier. ;p
> 
> I was wishing there were better words for penis than cock or dick, and then I decided to google 1960s penis slang... Many people have spent much time researching this. Many, many people. ;p Much giggling set back the writing time for the porn for awhile. (Also – their language would have included 40s-50s as learned in their teens, most likely.) Sadly, I can’t use most of these as it would have us laughing inappropriately in the fic. {Green banana, mutton gun, one-eyed reilly, pyjama python...} Of course, some of the ones from now would also have us laughing... {pant python made a variation re-emergence in 2004} {2012 gave us yogurt spitting sausage...} Not all slang is common terminology. Thank goodness. We’d be too busy laughing to ever have sex! (Not that a bit of humor can’t be had too. ^^)  
> www.refinery29.com/2014/07/71675/sex-slang-history  
> timeglider.com/timeline/194b572e19fd461b


	2. Chapter 2

“Huh,” Kuryakin’s voice was mild and even. “He fixed the glitch.”

A large part of Napoleon was rejoicing in the flames and he struggled not to revel in it too greatly – that way led to a level of indulgence not unlike Rudi’s. He took refuge in matching the other agent’s dryness. “Damn. I left my jacket in there.” Honestly, he didn’t actually know where his jacket was – it was already gone when he woke up, but it made a good line when he needed something to keep his composure right now.

They looked at each other again. For all the mild voice, there was a smug satisfaction lurking in the Russian’s blue eyes. Napoleon wondered about it for a moment, then decided he was better off not knowing. That was the past and they needed to focus on the mission. 

They needed to get to the island where Dr. Teller and the bomb were. It sent shivers down his spine to know how far they had gotten. The wars among the human nations never stopped, not ever... they’d gone from a second World War straight to a Greek civil war, then a half dozen more. But the horror of what the atom bomb had done to Hiroshima and Nagasaki could never be forgotten. In Europe, the Allies had counted the war all but won, with Germany’s surrender, and they had thought little about the Pacific. Napoleon had already been working on his collection, raiding what the Nazis had stolen with no compunctions – most of the original owners had been killed first by the Nazis, and who said anybody else after that had any more right to the treasure than the one who possessed it? 

The news of the bombing on Japan months after Germany’s surrender had taken them all by surprise. The images of destruction that trickled back in the newspapers rivaled that of what he’d seen in the Nazi camps. With an atomic warhead in the hands of those who would emulate Hitler... No. They couldn’t allow it. They had to get that bomb.

“What’s the best way out?” Napoleon asked. He had no idea where they were.

The KGB agent grimaced at the flames. “Other door.” They’d had their chat outside the back. Kuryakin had come in from the front, and they were now cut off from it. Where they were didn’t have a connecting corridor to the other. It didn’t look like it went much of anywhere, actually. Though it _was_ the door Victoria had left by, so it had to go somewhere.

“There is way out this way, just through—” Kuryakin was cut off as alarms started ringing. The flames had obviously broken through somewhere, though not on their side yet. 

It was somewhat disturbing to realize that no alarms had sounded in Rudi’s room. Or maybe they had – the sound-proofing around it was absolute. Which was also disturbing for similar reasons.

The Russian sighed. “That will make things harder.” He paused and tilted his head, thinking. “Or maybe easier.” Kuryakin glanced around then headed right. “This way.”

Napoleon followed, keeping his aching body moving. As a thief, he’d never been captured. As a soldier, he’d had his share of pain and wounds and fighting through no matter what. As a spy, he’d been introduced to periodic capture and torture. It came with the territory – a territory he’d never chosen. He’d be damned, though, if he would let anybody get the better of him. It was only a win for them if he gave in, and he would never give in to anybody. Not the CIA, not Rudi, not anybody.

They made their way through a series of doors and corridors, dodging people leaving rooms as the alarm kept ringing. At the first research room they passed, Kuryakin had grabbed a pair of lab coats for them. Napoleon’s fit alright, but the blonde giant looked ridiculous in his. At least it had made him put the cap away. He’d also given Napoleon his back-up gun, though they both were in silent agreement not to use them unless necessary. People worried about a fire didn’t pay much attention to the two of them. 

It was, in fact, going smoother than it should. At least until they came up to the check-point. 

It was a genuine, actual, check-point. With guards and guns and lots of badge checking and searching, despite the fire. Scientists and others who hadn’t grabbed their badges were arguing with the guards and still not getting through. They were _serious_ about the exit. Normally, it was entrances that got that much security.

With a sigh, Kuryakin took in the sight and then diverted around a bend. There were enough people turning back for badges that they didn’t draw too much notice. “Was afraid of that,” the Russian muttered. 

“What on earth?” Napoleon had to ask.

Kuryakin didn’t answer for a minute, concentrating as he picked their route. Then he paused in the middle of a row of doors, looking intently at each as they passed by. “This is secret underground research zone, but is directly under the cargo sorting factor.”

Napoleon made a noise of recognition. They’d studied that facility when they’d been trying to determine the most likely spot for the uranium refining. They’d dismissed it as too small to be feasible, but a separate lab area made perfect sense. 

“Here, it easy for them to hide numbers of people going in and out... but also easy to get away if worker steal something, which happened few years ago.”

It was amazing the amount of background that the other agent dug up in such a short time. Since they didn’t know any of this before, the Russian must have found it as he broke in, following the tracking device. Napoleon was glad his partner was such a good spy.

“So with theft, they increased security on personnel leaving. I’d left hole... but we can’t get to. They’ve probably discovered by now.” Kuryakin sounded disgruntled. Spywork was best discovered _after_ the spies had gone. 

Pausing, Kuryakin selected a door, then leaned over to pick the lock. It swung open fairly quickly and Napoleon stared at his partner. 

The agent made an irritated sound and then closed and locked it again, moving to the door next to it and picking that lock just as easily. “Ah.” That word was said in satisfaction this time, and they went in. Kuryakin shut the door and locked it behind them. 

They were in what looked like an unused lab that had been turned into a storage room, with boxes and supplies lying in disarray throughout. Napoleon ignored it, however, in favor of putting his attention towards his partner. He folded his arms across his chest and gave the KGB agent a direct stare. “You picked the lock.”

In the middle of exploring, Illya stopped dead and gave him a startled glance. And it was definitely Illya, not the stoic agent who flushed as he instantly figured out Napoleon’s meaning. “I would be lousy spy if could not pick locks,” he muttered.

“And at the shipping company?” Napoleon wasn’t going to let it go.

Illya sighed. “I should have stayed top. And kept it simple. Wanted to show off. Was flustered.”

Napoleon’s lips curved triumphantly. He’d thought so at the time, but it was _nice_ to hear the other agent admit it. That had been a delightful win at the time, and it was enjoyable to relive it now.

The Russian glared at him, but it was a weak-hearted thing compared with his real ones.

Letting him off the hook, Napoleon glanced through the room with more attention. “What now?”

Illya eyed the ceiling, then started arranging boxes in a route up. Napoleon groaned. He’d been hoping for something having to do with the lab part, not the storage part. He _hated_ crawling through air ducts. But if they had to, they had to. He reached for a box to help.

“No.” A large hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping him. 

Napoleon winced at the grip on his abrasions and the hand instantly loosened but didn’t let go. 

“No exertions,” Illya expanded on his no. He moved his hand from around Napoleon’s wrist to his chest, lying the fingers and palm flat over his heart. “How are you feeling?”

Napoleon had been trying not to think about that. They’d been moving slowly enough that none of it had shown or become an issue. While they’d been walking, he had to periodically wipe his nose from the blood dripping. That part had finally stopped, at least. 

“Any numbness, tingling?” Illya expanded. “See okay? Hear?” He paused while his hand stayed where it was. His voice dropped down low. “Feel?”

Just like that, they went from a mad dash to complete the mission to a pause that recalled other things in other pauses from before. Just the night before. Not that long ago, really.

Napoleon brought his right hand up to cover Illya’s on his chest. “I’m okay,” he repeated softly. “Bruised, inside and out. Sore. Tired. But no paralysis, numbness, or tingling.” None that he’d noticed yet, at least. “My heart is steady.”

“And true,” Illya responded, anguish laced through his voice. “I _hate_ that she did this to you.”

It might have been Victoria that drugged him and brought him to Rudi, but that wasn’t the ‘she’ Illya referred to. Napoleon shrugged, mostly indifferent. He was used to betrayal, particularly from the ones he trusted, which is why he didn’t trust any more. He had _liked_ Gaby, but never put his belief in her like Illya had. “I’m sorry,” he offered to the Russian. It was unlikely that the KGB agent let his guard down often, and the budding romance had been clear and amusing to watch. Now, Napoleon wished he’d intervened some, maybe tried for Gaby himself, to spare Illya this pain.

“It not you who needs to be sorry.” Illya took a breath in, closing his eyes. “Took so _long_ to find you...”

Napoleon’s watch had gone missing along the way – something he and Illya now had in common – but there had been a clock at the checkpoint. He’d been surprised to find it hadn’t actually been that long. Only a couple of hours and that included transport time from the shipping yard. It had felt like forever under Rudi’s care. But Rudi talked. A lot. The shocks weren’t as many as they could have been, and Illya must have come as fast as he could. It had still felt like forever to Napoleon, and apparently to Illya too. He could sympathize.

“Peril, I’m glad you’re an excellent spy with an obsession with trackers,” Napoleon said with an easy grin, looking to defuse some of the pain.

It worked as Illya’s lips twitched in almost a smile. “You were almost too good, Cowboy. Got most of them.”

“Who puts trackers in _shoes_?” Napoleon hadn’t even thought to scan them. Trackers needed to be quickly placed and were usually in spots readily accessible. Altering shoes to put a tracker in and not be visible... that took more than just a quick pass through a room.

The lips curved a bit more.

Napoleon reached up to touch them lightly. He couldn’t help the inward draw he felt. Gaby had proved false... but Illya had proved true. It had been unexpected, even with all they’d been through so far. KGB. Russian. Hater of all things capitalistic and Western. Neither of them had expected this partnership to work. And yet, somehow it did. And those that should have been enemies, were the ones who ended up saving each other’s lives. He hadn’t had much belief in the Russian either, nor made plans that relied overmuch on the other spy, and yet Illya had come back for him. With everything else going on, Illya had come back for him. It was a precious gift he’d not looked for nor expected.

Illya’s breath drew in, the breeze drawing past Napoleon’s fingers.

“Thank you,” Napoleon said softly, keeping his fingers on Illya’s lips, “for saving my life.” He had. Rudi would have kept going until the end. Pain for pain’s sake, not for information, and eventually there would have been no more.

“Napoleon,” Illya voice thrummed with longing and promised safety. It was a rare thing, for somebody to want to protect Napoleon.

Maybe it was time for Napoleon to get over his distaste of his first name. It had been something that Victoria had used against him, at the end, and that wasn’t where he wanted his memories to be.

“Solo,” Illya changed the name, a humorous glint showing with the correction. Napoleon wondered what sort of a tell he’d shown.

“Cowboy.” The last was spoken more definitively, a note of possession inside the nickname, and pride as well.

“Peril,” Napoleon responded, stepping closer to his partner. “Illya...”

Illya stepped in as well, and then their hands were trapped between them. Illya’s hand over Napoleon’s heart, Napoleon’s on Illya’s. His other hand left Illya’s lips to slide around the back of his head, golden hair between his fingers. Dry, golden hair. They hadn’t kissed the night before, cautious to leave a step removed. This time, that’s where they were going to start.

First, lips met lips. Napoleon being the one to tip his head up and angle it, which amused him. Oh, he’d been kissed by plenty of people standing over him while he was sitting, or kneeling, or some other position where he’d ended up below them. But to be standing – for both of them to be standing on equal levels and for him to be tilting up, to have a larger body engulfing his... it was rare.

Illya was no stranger to this, as he’d shown the night before. He might fumble with Gaby, but with Napoleon, there was no hesitation. A hand on Napoleon’s hip... the same place it had rested the night before. The other arm curving around Napoleon’s back until his hand rested up along his shoulder blades. Leaning in just right to lower his head, avoid the noses bumping, and touch his lips to Napoleon’s.

They both paused there for a moment. 

Then there was mutual lip action, with pushing and sucking and mouths opening to expand the play. Then there were tongues – Napoleon couldn’t even say who started the tongues. But they were there and his arms were around Illya as tightly as Illya’s around him and they were working on spontaneous combustion together through tongues and wetness alone.

Napoleon was experienced enough to know that kissing didn’t equal feelings – it was just another part of the sex and a delicious part of it. Sex was so much more delightful when all the senses took part, and mouths were a big part of that. However, some people had the belief that it was only sex if there was no kissing, and if there was kissing, there were feelings. They had both avoided the kissing the night before, primarily because they hadn’t been in any good position for it, but that was probably due to Illya’s careful planning. Napoleon wasn’t sure where Illya stood on the kissing subject. He did admit, however, that the Russian was very, very good at it.

They kept kissing, exploring this new world between them. Occasionally coming up for air and then moving to other nearby places – the cheeks, the noses, the jawbones, the ears, periodically a foray down to the neck. But always coming up for the lips and the mouth again. 

Their bodies shifted as they explored, pressing against each other for maximum coverage, then shifting again for position, then trying another. Little steps for balance, and to shift a leg forward or backwards, depending on the rest. 

Napoleon could feel Illya’s jemson growing harder and more solid against him the more they tangled.

And then Illya broke off and stepped back, raising his hands carefully away. “I am sorry,” he murmured, turning his head away with what appeared to be a look of shame before he hid it.

Napoleon blinked. Then followed the steps forward. “What?” He reached to touch Illya again, but the Russian twisted away. Napoleon didn’t think he’d ever get used to such a large person being so quick. Or so baffling.

“You don’t want it. I apologize,” Illya said stiffly.

That had to be the most insane statement Napoleon had ever heard in his life. “What?” he repeated. Then he added some of his thoughts. “Are you mentally deficient, or just delusional? _That_ wasn’t on your chart!”

That got a glare, which at least had the Russian looking directly back at him again. 

Pointedly, Illya glanced down Napoleon’s body, stopping his gaze about half-way down, then looked back up again and raised an eyebrow.

Oh. Napoleon sighed. “Illya, I’m _exhausted_. Not to mention all used up from last night.” And still sore from the torture, but he wasn’t going to say that out loud. “There’s no way that’s happening any time soon on my part. That doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”

“Oh,” Illya’s voice held elements of a revelation. Then he blushed a fiery red all over. 

Napoleon had to just pause and take that in, amazed at the sight. He pushed it a bit further, just for the heck of it. “When I said I’d given it all I had, I meant that quite literally.”

The red turned a deeper shade. He hadn’t thought that was possible. Napoleon wondered how far down it went. Might be fun to find out sometime. In the meantime... he poked a bit more. “One doesn’t have to come in order to have fun. After all, you enjoyed yourself last night, didn’t you?”

That got an incredibly startled double-take and a swallow, both of which were completely unexpected. Napoleon frowned, trying to figure it out. “In the van,” he clarified slowly.

“Oh,” Illya repeated, the spooked look disappearing but the blush returning. Now he looked guilty instead.

Napoleon blinked. There had been two things happening last night. He had _not_... “Agent Kuryakin, do you have my room bugged???” That little sneak... Trackers **and** bugs. Okay, he’d put some in Illya’s room too, but the Russian had found all of his. Obviously Napoleon needed to work on his searches. And his plantings. But back to the topic. “You were listening? Last night?”

“Had to make sure you didn’t need help,” Illya mumbled. “I turned it off.” He blushed. “But had to check again sometimes. Just to make sure.”

The ridiculous part of it out-weighed the indignation, and really Napoleon couldn’t be that mad at it anyhow. He tilted his head back and laughed.

“I could have used some help, in fact,” Napoleon teased when his laughter finally changed to chuckles. “She was almost too much for lone little me.”

The blushing really was quite adorable, especially considering what _they_ had been up to right before Victoria came over. 

Then Napoleon frowned as the timeline suddenly clicked together in his mind. “Huh. She didn’t believe me after all.”

Illya’s blush retreated as he frowned too, unhappy thoughts returning. “It was Gaby who betrayed. She told them. I heard...”

“I thought that was supposed to be just another tracker.” Napoleon brushed it off. “No, I do believe you, but the timeline’s wrong. My meeting... what time did Gaby tell them?”

“12:24,” Illya replied promptly, with minutes even. “Almost as soon as she and Rudi got there to meet with Alexander. I was barely in position.” His voice dripped gloom and despair and wounded hurt.

Napoleon shook his head. “My meeting with Victoria was at 12:30. I got escorted up at 12:32 and she was on the phone. Now it’s _possible_ Victoria has a whole tray of drugged drinks just sitting around for any contingency, and she had them switched out in the few minutes before I got there... but it’s more likely she’d prepared it ahead of time for me. Which means she knew before Gaby had even said anything.”

“You were drugged?” Illya’s gaze sharpened as he studied Napoleon intently.

“There’s worse ways to be captured,” Napoleon shrugged. Then he laughed, this time with no humor in the sound. “They were hauling up the cargo van as we talked. I could see it through the window.” He thought about it some more. “She was amused. The whole time we talked, she was _amused_. If she’d _just_ found out she’d been tricked through a night of sex, she would have been angry. But she already knew. Oh, that original thief approach to her seriously bit me bad.” Stupid alarm. Who would have thought they would have modified such a complex safe, especially one in the middle of their facility where you already had to get through layers and layers of security to get to? Especially one that had been abandoned and emptied out already?

“Cargo van?” Illya sounded baffled. “The one we were in?”

That was right, Illya had missed that part. “No, the one I drove into the water to find you with.”

The Russian opened and closed his mouth and continued to look baffled. 

“You had to be there,” Napoleon waved it off. “Were they waiting for you, too?”

“I... don’t know,” Illya said slowly. “Not immediately, but if they had been...” Illya trailed off.

“Gaby’s betrayal had you running off ahead of schedule,” Napoleon finished. “So she actually saved us, instead.” In a round-about way.

Illya obviously struggled with it. “Was not intent. She still—”

“I know,” Napoleon cut him off. “I know,” he repeated more softly. He still wasn’t as upset as the KGB agent, which was funny. Of them all, the KGB agent should have been the one least likely to trust, and the most paranoid. The trackers and bugs all pointed to the prep-work for paranoia... but trust had been given instead. 

His Red Peril had a soft interior all right. Napoleon was surprised it had survived all those years as an agent. Napoleon himself didn’t trust anybody – it was what made him such an effective spy. He hadn’t thought Gaby would betray them... but he also hadn’t trusted her just on general principle. If Illya hadn’t trusted her so, he wouldn’t be so hurt right now. Feelings were a detriment in their world.

With a sigh, Napoleon put away those thoughts, and also his ideas for a nice break. Time to get back to work and escape. He glanced at the box route that Illya had started to set up, and moved to get another one for the stairs.

A large hand closed softly on his shoulder, stopping him. Then another hand was on the opposite side, and he was being pulled close so his back was against a large, warm chest. “I can do that,” Illya rumbled above Napoleon’s ear. “Rest.”

Then Napoleon was released, and the Russian was prowling past him, looking through the boxes further away in the room.

Napoleon frowned at Illya’s back. Speaking of feelings... He really got the impression that there was more to this than just them doing their job and having a bit of fun on the side. Illya trusted _him_ too. It wasn’t a good thing. Well, it wasn’t a good thing for Illya. It was a fine thing for Napoleon, because when people trusted him and liked him, they did what he wanted them to. Like rescue him from mad uncles. 

Mad uncles in a mad world. In a Spy vs. Spy strip, how did he and Illya fit? Which was black and which was white? Of course, in a MAD world, it didn’t matter as the next week was right back again.

That wasn’t the most coherent set of thoughts Napoleon had ever had. His time in Rudi’s care was still having an effect on him. Maybe Illya was right to keep him from moving boxes right now. But he couldn’t just rest. 

People could push themselves beyond their limits, and focus on what needed to be done, but break that focus and the limits had a way of hitting you again, hard. Napoleon wanted to rest, but he was afraid if he did so he wouldn’t be getting back up again soon, and they had duct work to crawl through after this. He had to find a distraction instead, something to focus his energy on until it was time for them to move again.

Across the room, Illya grunted in satisfaction. 

Frowning, Napoleon looked over. The box-stairs had been abandoned for laboratory equipment raiding, apparently. What was Illya up to?

When the other agent came back, he had a first aid kit in his hands, along with a bottle of water. “Sit down,” he ordered.

Oh. Right. Napoleon sighed and found a nice solid box against the wall. He sat and rolled his sleeves up, exposing the raw skin and caked blood around his wrists, a legacy from his struggles in the chair.

The Russian was gentle as he used water and a soft cloth to clean them, but they still hurt. Napoleon bit the inside of his lip, then forced himself not to as there was no unbitten place left there either. Instead, he stared down at the golden hair bent over his hands and tried to distract himself.

Golden hair, bending down... humm... there was a nice distraction. And memory of what those talented lips could do in that position as well. Napoleon’s lips curved up and he barely noticed the sting when Illya moved onto the antiseptic. 

Illya really did have talented fingers as well. And steady hands that moved with assurance and confidence across one’s skin. By the time bandages had been wrapped and secured around both wrists, Napoleon was drifting in a haze of sensation.

Then Illya moved down to Napoleon’s ankles. The damage there wasn’t as obvious, his socks and pants legs having prevented the restraints rubbing to raw skin, but there was a lot of bruising. Illya ran his hands up and down over them, making Napoleon shiver. He also kept asking Napoleon to move his ankles, wiggle his toes, bend his knees...

“What are you doing?” Napoleon finally asked. The bruises he could understand, but this was a bit much.

“Checking for broken bones,” Illya murmured, his hands drifting around as he spoke.

Napoleon blinked. “I think I would have noticed—”

Illya cut him off. “The little bones. With electricity, muscles tighten, sometimes too tight.” He looked up at Napoleon, the blue eyes steady. “And you are in no condition to feel it right now.”

No, he really wasn’t. With a sigh, Napoleon let Illya do his checking. It seemed awfully familiar for some reason... he liked being on the other side better. Though the worry about Illya until the other man had started breathing again hadn’t been any fun at all. The checking for wounds, however, most certainly had been.

Illya stood up, finally, after putting Napoleon’s socks and shoes back on. Napoleon felt a little silly for letting the other man do it, but at the same time it also felt... okay, to be taken care of like this. 

He did, however, object again when Illya put his hands on Napoleon’s waist jacket. “I’m fine.”

“Stubborn,” Illya muttered. “Did _I_ object when you had me take my sweater off last night?”

“You might have been shot!” Napoleon protested. 

Illya glared at him.

Rolling his eyes, Napoleon capitulated. “Okay, but I can—”

He was cut off by another kiss, this one savage and rough and not taking prisoners. _Oh._ Napoleon thought as hands at his throat undid his tie while his mouth was still busy. _Okay..._ As far as distractions went, this one was definitely top notch.

Before he quite knew it, not only was his tie and waist coat off, but the shirt was unbuttoned as well and half-way down his arms. Illya had to break off the kiss to get Napoleon to let go of his hair so he could get the shirt off the rest of the way.

Illya hissed when the shirt was off and he was looking at Napoleon’s chest. Involuntarily, Napoleon looked down too.

He didn’t look _that_ bad, he thought. Sure, there were two red lines across his chest, the upper and lower part of the band that had held him to the chair, and a darkening of the skin between. There would probably be a fairly large bruise there the next day. But it could have been worse. This was getting away easy, as far as torture went. At least externally.

Then he felt Illya dabbing at his collarbone with the wet water and soft cloth again, and that was nowhere near the bruising. Napoleon raised his eyebrows, not that Illya could see it from the angle he was focused on.

“What did she do,” Illya muttered, “ _chew_ on you?”

Oh, right. Those. Napoleon tried to control his own blush, redirecting it into a flippant air, “Pretty much. What, you don’t bite?”

That earned him a heated glance that was mixed equally with the standard glare. It was a fascinating combination, and if he was physically capable, it would have had him sitting up and taking notice. Well, _he_ was taking notice, but sadly other parts of him were still down for the count.

“Hers might be infectious,” Illya muttered, moving down Napoleon’s chest as he cleaned then put ointment on the wounds. “Rabies, most likely.”

Napoleon’s lips twitched. “I’ve been vaccinated.”

Illya snorted. “I’m sure.” He finished with the bites from the night before then stood, looking down at Napoleon, his regard steady.

Napoleon tilted his head and looked up, trying to figure out what the Russian was thinking. 

Then two large hands cupped Napoleon’s head gently, and thumbs gently moved along his forehead, stroking with a delicate touch at odds with the violent person they belonged to.

Gentle, but it still hurt. Napoleon grimaced. There would be another long bruise over his forehead tomorrow, wouldn’t there? _That_ wouldn’t be able to be covered up by suits. A hat, maybe. Maybe he could borrow Gaby’s scarf.

Dropping his hands, Illya knelt down again, and then leaned in to kiss Napoleon’s forehead gently. “You’ll be okay,” he murmured against his skin, and stayed there for a long moment.

As he stood up again, Napoleon shot a hand out and captured Illya’s wrist. Illya looked down at it, and grimaced, breaking the grip with a quick turn of his hand and a pull through. “Do not do that, Cowboy. Bad memories.”

Napoleon filed that away and didn’t reach out again. Instead he stood as well, and raised his hands to Illya’s chest, pushing away the silly ill-fitting lab coat. “It occurs to me,” he purred, “that I owe you thanks. For saving my life.”

The blue eyes dilated, leaving a ring of the blue around a dark circle inside. Illya stepped closer, until they were pressing up against each other. “We don’t have time for this,” he said, though not very convincingly.

Napoleon worked his hands between them, sliding them under Illya’s sweater until he touched flesh. Did the man have an infinite number of black turtlenecks? “Sure we do,” he responded as he stroked the ticklish belly, “delivery doesn’t take place until 8am.” 

Illya swallowed, squirming in place from Napoleon’s fingers but not moving away. He shifted his weight until his thigh was between Napoleon’s legs. “You sure you don’t mind...?”

“So polite!” Napoleon chuckled at both the check and the question. “I don’t mind, Illyushenka.”

Illya growled, baring his teeth. “I am not a little boy.”

“I can feel that, Peril,” Napoleon moved to safer nicknames, as well as a literal step back just in case. Though he also moved his hand downward to show his meaning. 

“You like to live dangerously, Cowboy,” Illya’s eyes glinted with approval and humor.

“Always,” Napoleon grinned, showing his own teeth. He did like to live dangerously, and this was definitely one of the more dangerous things he’d ever done and he was loving every minute of it. 

Illya snorted. Then he took his own step back and stripped down, taking off lab coat and jacket. He reached a hand to his gun harness, then paused and considered the door to the corridor. With a shake of his head, he left it and his turtleneck on, though he did double-check that the safety to the gun was on.

His partner was probably right, darn it. Not the place for a full strip. And Napoleon had so been looking forward to seeing Illya’s bare chest in full light. Darn it. With a wrinkle of his nose, Napoleon checked his own gun – that was the backup gun that Illya had given him earlier. It was a smaller one that fit in a clip holster that went along the waistband. Napoleon didn’t generally wear them because they were too easy to detect with the fitted suits he wore, and he didn’t rely so much on guns in his work. Illya’s loose-fitting pants and sweater could more easily hide it. For what they were planning to do, a waistband clip would get in the way, certainly a lot more so than a chest holster. With that in consideration, Napoleon put the gun down on top of his shirt. 

He was amused to note that Illya had actually laid out Napoleon’s waist coat and shirt carefully when putting them on another nearby box. Not quite folding, but not just tossing them down. He wondered if that was general tidiness on Illya’s part or a special consideration for the expensive clothes – or Napoleon’s clothes. Napoleon itched to figure more things out about his partner, but they had so little time to do it in.

Without a harness to worry about, Napoleon decided to leave his shirt off for now. He could get back into it easily enough if they had to move quickly. And he rather liked the way that Illya’s eyes kept coming hungrily back to him.

After taking off his jacket, Illya had wandered off to grab another box, this one apparently rather heavy from the grunt he made moving it, and never fully lifted it. Instead, he ‘walked’ it corner to corner until it was blocking the door. The sight he made, in the form-fitting black sweater, with his muscles flexing and body bending, made a beautiful show. Wrenching his eyes away with an effort, Napoleon checked the hinges, and yes, the door did open inwards. Most office and lab doors did, and he remembered coming in that way, but it never hurt to double-check. He just hoped they didn’t have to get out of the room any time quickly.

Illya came back from the box-setting and stood in front of Napoleon, his giant hands twitching slightly – not trembling from anger, but rather like he wanted to reach out and grab and was barely restraining himself. 

Napoleon grinned and stretched, lifting his arms above his head and reaching upwards as far as he could. That actually felt good, more than just display – he’d been a long time strapped to the chair. He came down slowly, twisting his body slightly from side to side, working out the kinks. Flexing his hands, he worked his fingers and wrists in a twisting pattern, moving slowly at first and then more rapidly, changing into some advanced finger exercises as he went. While his hands were occupied, he spread his legs and leaned over in as much of a lunge as his pants would allow – which was pretty far, since he specifically had them tailored for movement as well as looks. No off-the-shelf suits for him, which admittedly got costly. The CIA gave him a clothing allowance, though, as it was also very practical for the jobs.

A soft breath inward let him know that his stretching was getting the attention he wanted. He glanced over to see Illya’s eyes dark and his lids lowered down.

Admiration was a heady drug, and Napoleon drank it in. He loved to be watched, and to have the tough as nails premier KGB super-agent being the one doing it was even better. That man had probably been trained on how to resist seduction and torture equally, and here he was, openly lusting for one he’d been conditioned to hate. It was power that Napoleon only dreamed of, though he knew it was also in great deal – if not the only deal – due to the trust that the other had in him. That part was still a little frightening, and he shied away from thinking about it. _Cowboy special._ Napoleon ignored the way his own heart beat from the whispered memory – too much time on Rudi’s chair.

Instead, he moved in slow stretches inside Illya’s range, and then paused there, his body open, his gaze expectant.

With a growl, Illya reached out and took. His large hands splayed out on Napoleon’s body, the left one settling onto his hip like it belonged there, and the right spread wide across his spine. He licked at Napoleon’s lips, and ignored the open mouth that Napoleon offered him, continuing with his outside attentions, kissing and nibbling and licking across from lips to tip of his nose, over his closed eyes, along the forehead again, then down the cheeks to the jawbone, where he lingered. 

It would have been easy to get lost in the sensations and just be taken. But Napoleon instinctively struggled against it, not willing to give that much up. He’d done it before, for missions and for pleasure – people believed you the best when they thought you had nothing to hide, exposing yourself completely, and people believed there was nothing as vulnerable as sex. Napoleon had made a career out of proving that belief wrong by surrendering the senses instead. But here and now... here, for some reason, he didn’t want to. Not like that. 

Instead, while his face was being assaulted, he dragged his hands down the front of Illya’s sweater, finding him slightly hot and heaving, probably from moving the box, but it was a wonderful lead to other things physical. He worked his way in underneath, spreading his hands on the bare flesh he finally found there.

There was a rumbling of amusement from somewhere near his ear. “You like skin.”

Napoleon raised his eyebrow. Didn’t everybody?

“Have sex in snow and cold, you would learn to appreciate clothes,” Illya chuckled, his giant hands roving up and down Napoleon’s bare back, showing his own appreciation for flesh. “Skin is special treat, to be savored and found in...” the Russian struggled for words, “hide and seek.”

Napoleon shivered, thrilled with the idea of finding, though not so much of the cold. “I like warmer climates.” He moved one of his hands downward, tucking under the waistband and reaching as far as he could without unbuttoning Illya’s pants.

Illya’s breath drew in, words lost in the heat. He pushed forward, then walked them both towards a wall, pushing Napoleon up against it and stroking down his sides possessively. His mouth dropped down to Napoleon’s neck, where he bit gently. Then he abruptly leaned away, his head twisting to one side as he coughed and spat. 

Apparently he’d forgotten about the ointment he’d just put on the earlier bites. Napoleon’s body shook with his efforts to suppress his laughter. 

As he wiped his mouth and then turned back, Illya gave Napoleon a sheepish shrug. Napoleon reached up to catch the back of his hair and pull him back to him. No wounds in his mouth, at least none that had been treated. He tasted the remnants of the ointment and chased it out of Illya’s mouth, licking along all the insides, while he kept hold of his amusement. It was fun to have this, to have both the sex and the connection both, being able to tease as much as fuck.

Illya pressed closer, a hand under Napoleon’s chin, locking them together, his body covering Napoleon’s, his hips moving in a rhythm that was age old and familiar. 

Napoleon rumbled, enjoying the feel of Illya pressing onto him and how hard and large he was, even through his pants. Too bad they didn’t have a lot of time – he would have loved even more of this. He suspected, though, that it was something that even Napoleon would have to work up for, and they would need more time than a wall in a lab in the middle of an escape.

He moved his hands down again, one to the rear and one to the front. He dug his fingers into Illya’s firm posterior, wondering how there could be so much muscle there, and urged him in the rhythm. In the front, he didn’t have much room to work in, as close pressed as Illya was to him, so he retreated there and moved upwards again, wigging under the sweater and spreading against the skin. Yes, he loved skin, and he so dearly wanted to see Illya’s... another time. They would have to have another time, just so he could get the sight he wanted. In the meantime...

With a growl, Illya banked his thrusts and then moved back a step. Before Napoleon could start to wonder, the larger man went down on his knees, head at the appropriate angle, fingers reaching to Napoleon’s pants. Then he hesitated, apparently remembering Napoleon’s problem.

“Peril, you are so _bad_ at giving up control.” Either that, or the Russian just really loved sucking cock. Napoleon didn’t think that was it, even though the night before was still etched in his memory. No, this was definitely a control issue. Napoleon snickered, dropping to his own knees so they were again on slightly more of equal footing. This time, when he reached out, he didn’t delay again and instead went to work on fastenings and zipper, and anything else in his way.

Illya’s eyes closed as he swayed into Napoleon’s touch. “Cowboy. There’s a saying...” he gasped, the words lost for a few moments. His hands came down on Napoleon’s shoulders, holding there. “Um... tea service and hearth?”

“What?” Napoleon was concentrating on drawing out the lovely, lovely long thick jemson he’d found behind the folds of cloth. His mouth watered, seeing how red and hard it was. Foreskin intact as well, which would give him more to play with. 

“Tea kettle? Ahhh...” Illya dipped his head down to rest on Napoleon’s shoulder, his body shuddering. “Pots.”

Napoleon liked having Illya draped over him like that, but he couldn’t _see_. And he wasn’t going to be getting down there with his mouth anytime soon if Illya kept holding him up. Instead, Napoleon used touch to draw his fingers up the length, trying not to catch too roughly on the sensitive skin. “Oh! Pots and kettles.”

“Yes...” Illya whimpered, his breaths panting into Napoleon’s shoulder. “Yes...”

Napoleon spat into his other hand then switched grips out, trying a few tugs. He raised his eyebrows at the feel, realizing he may not have needed the spit – the foreskin made sliding up and down easier, taking care of the protection from his rough hands. It was also more moist than he was used to. Obviously, he needed to experiment more and figure out the differences. He stroked more, enjoying the feel. Illya, too, was enjoying the feel, in quite a different way. The larger man was quietly breaking alongside him, without a lot of play. But then, with all the adrenaline rushing through them, it didn’t take a whole much more sometimes, and they had been very handsy for awhile.

With a couple of quick moves, Napoleon’s grip was knocked aside, and then he was flat on the floor, his own pants being rucked down. Before he had time to process this, Illya was on top of him, lined up in the grove, and rocking steadily. His mouth was open, breaths coming in deep pants, eyes not quite closed but deeply lidded as he stared intently at Napoleon.

And this was a fine time for Napoleon’s jemson to start showing returning signs of life. Napoleon moaned as he raised his hips to return the thrusts. 

“Napoleon,” Illya’s voice was rough and shot, a return to the hoarseness of the night before, but without the drowning – at least not of water. 

Napoleon thought he might actually start liking his first name some more, at least in these circumstances, if it got Illya sounding like that. 

Even though Napoleon didn’t say anything, within moments of the name, Illya was correcting himself again, “Cowboy.” This vocalization was deeper in tone, that earlier note of possession laced through, along with a thrum of something else that Napoleon was too far gone to identify. 

“Peril,” he gasped out in return, holding onto the body above him and struggling for his senses.

Illya pushed down and held for a long moment, his face relaxing from the contortions that could look like either pain or pleasure to the relaxed wonder that was pleasure alone. Sticky warmth spread between them.

Napoleon reached up to touch Illya’s face, awed. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before, from men and women both. But this was _Illya_ , and it was something to wonder at.

A few long blinks while eyelids covered orbs that were slowly starting to return to blue, with pale long eyelashes framing them, and then Illya was back in his body and looking down at Napoleon. Some other expression flickered briefly over his face, then he turned inscrutable, holding whatever it was at bay. He turned his head slightly so that he was pressing into Napoleon’s hand.

They held like that for a long few moments without speaking. Then Illya finally shifted to move off Napoleon. As he did so, he blinked, then glanced down Napoleon’s body. Sitting up with a humm of interest, Illya reached...

Regretfully, Napoleon blocked the hand from completing its travel.

Illya raised his eyebrows at him. “The problem is obviously solved, so...?”

With a sigh, Napoleon sat up too, looking around for where Illya had left that bowl of water and cloth. “Peril, if you finish me off, it really _will_ finish me, and I’d be going down for the count. There’s still a mission to complete.” Ah, there it was. He stretched out and captured it, bringing it back for a brief cleaning.

When Napoleon looked up, there was a regretful grin playing around Illya’s mouth. Apparently he also knew the problem. Napoleon handed the cloth to Illya. That was one thing about having sex with other men – at least they understood without a lot of explaining.

After they finished putting themselves to rights, Illya stood up first, then gave Napoleon a hand.

Napoleon glanced up. “So... air ducts?” At least he wasn’t tired anymore. That little interlude had him buzzing and there was more than enough adrenalin in him now to have him going for a long while yet. He thought he could even face air ducts now.

“Air ducts,” Illya agreed, and then went off to grab more boxes. “By the way, Cowboy, what _is_ that saying? In English?”

“Um?” Napoleon was putting on his shirt and tie again.

“Pots and kettles? Something like the crabs walking straight?”

Napoleon paused in mid-knot and frowned at his partner. 

Illya heaved a box on top of another one and glanced back, catching the frown. He sighed. “Aesop fable. But that’s not the same. What was pot and kettle?”

Finishing the tie, Napoleon put on his waist jacket, mourning the loss of his suit jacket. Then he picked up the gun, testing it out again before clipping it on. “You know... I’ve forgotten.”

Illya snorted and went back to stacking boxes.

 

... ... ...

* * *

End Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were no actual times mentioned in the movie for Napoleon’s meeting with Victoria, but Gaby’s meeting was at noon, and the phone call puts a direct tie on them. I really don’t think there was enough time to switch the drinks from informing her to Napoleon’s entrance. The raising up of the cargo van is a hysterical background image in the scene – watch carefully. It’s out the window right after Napoleon put his drugged drink in the statue’s hand. Blink and you’ll miss it.
> 
> Spy vs. Spy came out in 1961, so it’s a totally valid reference. There’s even a Grey Spy in there too... but I’ll wait for Napoleon to make *that* connection some other time.


	3. Chapter 3

Small talk that did nothing to conceal the fact that they were within a hair’s breadth of shooting at each other. Napoleon watched Illya’s tall figure in the mirror and the slow reach inside his jacket. Napoleon picked up his own gun and started to turn... and stopped. Biting his lip, he looked in the mirror again. Illya was still continuing the slow creep into his jacket. His hand was probably on his gun now, and... and that was where it stayed for the moment.

It was painfully obvious that the Russian KGB agent was dragging his feet. That pathetic little nod he’d given earlier to Napoleon’s question. Everything he’d done, and most especially _hadn’t_ done, since he came in. But at the same time, it was also obvious that he _was_ going to do something. Eventually. Which meant that Napoleon would have to do something himself. What was it that Illya valued more than orders? 

_”That man stole my father’s watch!”_ Except that Illya had lost it by following orders – Napoleon’s orders. One way or the other, Napoleon owed it to him to try. 

Reaching to the other side of his case, he picked up the watch that was sitting there. In the mirror, he saw Illya’s movements speed up in reaction to his own, and Napoleon knew he didn’t have a lot of time left. He turned and threw the watch, talking quickly to hopefully make it clear it wasn’t an attack.

There was a bare second of hesitation, then the gun was back in the holster under the jacket and Illya’s hands were reaching out to catch the falling object. 

Napoleon heaved a sigh inside. That had been the hard part. He could have so easily shot Illya instead... Napoleon rolled his shoulders, then stuck his hands in his pockets and waited. 

Illya was turning the watch around in his hands, an incredulous glance up to Napoleon, and then his attention back to the watch again. With trembling hands, he fastened it where it belonged. 

_Who wears a precious keepsake into missions?_ Napoleon repeated his first thought from when Illya had first said it was stolen. But there was no denying the relaxation that came upon the Russian with the watch being on his wrist again. Or maybe that was from something else.

“You know what my mission is?” Illya stared at him intently, his hands returning to his sides. His eyes, though, were still vulnerable, thrown from his KGB agent status with the catch of the watch.

“Same as mine was,” Napoleon said softly, recalling the moment in the helicopter when they’d traded glances while talking to their superiors. “Kill me, if necessary,” he reached over and picked up the waist coat, revealing the tape, “to get that.” 

Illya barely gave it a glance, keeping his eyes on Napoleon. “Was?” he asked.

Of course, Illya had noticed the tense. Napoleon hadn’t meant it like that – he’d been thinking of the past, not the present. But still... he looked at the disc and thought of swimming through the water holding a body he wasn’t sure was alive or not, and knew his answer. “Was,” he said softly, making the decision. 

Illya walked forward next to him and reached out to pick up the computer disc, turning it over in his hands.

Napoleon tensed. He may not be willing to kill Illya over it, but neither did he want the Soviet Union to get the information on it. He had visited Japan after the war, and while both nations already had nuclear knowledge and bombs and delivery systems... he didn’t want it to be any easier than it already was for them.

Illya glanced at him, easily reading the tension but not defusing it. “How did you get it? I thought was destroyed with Victoria. Was that not part of her delivery to them? Bomb _and_ research? Research should have been more important – bomb was extra.”

Napoleon shrugged, helpless to answer that. “Alexander had it. It might be a decoy like the other bomb – I haven’t the equipment to read it.”

“Decoy,” Illya said thoughtfully. He tossed the computer tape up and caught it. “Or duplicate. Would be easy enough given time. The vault was clean. They’d finished the uranium before we even arrived in Italy.” He frowned. “How many duplicates would they have made?”

Sucking in a breath, Napoleon contemplated that nightmare scenario for a moment. Then he shook his head. “Victoria wouldn’t have trusted any other with it. Her husband was the only one. Rudi... no, she knew what he was. Alexander would have been the only other person she would have shared with.” After a very long night, and then a rather intense morning, Napoleon may not have been an expert on Victoria, but he thought he knew her well enough for that. Of course, he also thought she’d believed him, and that had turned out to be false. “Give one tape to the contact... and keep one for herself.”

Illya nodded, accepting Napoleon’s evaluation, though he still frowned. “Who ended up cleaning for the Vinciguerra estates?”

Without the top three heads of the company, the company was in chaos. With intelligence about the illegal operations, the various government agencies had gotten into a free-for-all with the aftermath beyond the initial target. They weren’t going to let civilians inherit the company before they had their chance to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. The only question was which agency. The Italian intelligence were asserting their rights, but there were also two of them and they hadn’t been first on the scene, which was causing problems, as the other groups thought they should have noticed the illegal operations before now. Illya had missed most of the wrangling, having been carted off to medical for some hours longer than Napoleon, whose own check had been more cursory and mostly consisting of concussion questions and pain pills. He’d almost wished he could have missed it too but they wanted him there in case they had questions from the on-scene agents. “Waverly for MI6,” he answered. “Mostly. He managed to persuade the rest they were the most neutral party of the ones there.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed and his fingers tightened around the disc. “Waverly... or MI6?”

Heh. Napoleon’s mouth curved up in a sarcastic acknowledgement. Illya had picked up on that as well. Waverly was playing his own game. It wasn’t clear yet what his game was, or what was happening... but though the older British agent used MI6 and the navy, and they deferred to him, Waverly was distinctly removed from them. 

“What do you think?” Napoleon didn’t need to clarify that his question was about Waverly – he and Illya read each other well enough for that.

Illya tapped the disc thoughtfully. “Don’t trust him for us, yet good with big picture.”

Napoleon nodded. Waverly was, after all, the one who had ordered them dumped into it, but he had also orchestrated a lot of the recovery and had never lost sight of the overall objective – as well as his own operative, which was a good sign. 

“It...” the Russian agent hesitated, obviously picking over his words. Then he abruptly switched, “When was last time you swept?”

A good thing to consider given what they were discussing. “Half hour ago – that’s what delayed my packing. Didn’t want there to be anything packed or left. Got the shoes too.” With a grin, Napoleon walked to the bathroom and then came back with a water glass that was half-full of Russian trackers and bugs, all popped and soaked. He handed it to Illya. “Here. You can have them back.”

Illya took it with his other hand not holding the disk, exasperation showing. “You did not have to destroy them. Hard to make.” He held it up and looked the glass over. “Some of these not mine. Yesterday...” Illya paused and corrected himself, “day before, thought was other KGB.” He handed it back to Napoleon.

Napoleon had noticed the difference, but hadn’t really thought much about it at the time, thinking they were simply tracking or monitoring different frequencies. Now he studied the glass again, evaluating how some of them were distinctly clunkier, though still in the same basic shape. Illya’s were much more refined and smaller... and he’d just implied he made them himself. Interesting. “Gaby?”

“Or Waverly.” Illya shrugged. “He had access and no eyes on him.”

Thinking about it, Napoleon frowned over the timeline. “Wait a second... when did _you_ replace them again?”

Illya flashed a quick grin. “You were at breakfast.” They’d all slept in, catching up on missed sleep, so breakfast had been a bit later than usual. And come to think of it, Illya _had_ been even later than the other two, though Gaby had said he was up.

Napoleon heaved a sigh of exasperation. “The mission is over!”

The words hung between them for a long moment. Both sets of eyes turned to the blue disc in Illya’s hand.

“Your problem,” Illya said tiredly, the weight of everything in his voice, “is you still think like thief, not spy.”

Napoleon’s mouth tightened, but the sad truth was that the Russian was correct. His years on loan to the CIA, he’d never committed himself to them, nor them to him. He was still a thief, in his heart. Though if he ever dared to admit it to himself, he liked the spy work – just not who he worked for. The spy work was exhilarating, challenging, intriguing, making him stretch and reach to his limits, much more than simple thievery ever did. This mission, working with Illya... with a partner... with this partner... Napoleon shook his head, turning away for the things not to be.

“I will think of something,” Illya promised, though his voice was grimly dark, rather than hopeful. 

Napoleon turned back again, “I almost wish I hadn’t picked it up.” Nobody could have blamed him, and then it would have been Waverly’s problem, not theirs. And to think, he’d counted it as a win at the time.

Illya studied first Napoleon, then the disc again, thoughtfully. He brushed a bit of mud off the side.   
“I saw you pick this up.” He sounded uncertain, though the statement had been definitive. “After I killed Alexander. You were on the ground, reaching for... it wasn’t your gun. It was this. There was blue color. I remember now.” He paused. “It was... hard to see. I did not realize.”

Napoleon nodded in turn. He hadn’t thought Illya had seen much except Gaby at that point. Though to be fair, Illya had checked on him first. Honestly, the fact that Illya had been moving at all was just so darn impressive... “You threw a motorcycle at him. A _motorcycle_ , Peril!”

Illya chuckled. “It was on top when I woke. I had to pick up to get up. Or at least that’s what I did. Wasn’t thinking much.” He shrugged, dismissing it, but his eyes still shaded in memory. “I saw you... I saw him. He hit you.” Starting to reach out to Napoleon, Illya paused at the disc still in his hand. Impatiently, he tossed it back on the settee and completed the gentle touch to just above Napoleon’s eye. 

The bruise where Alexander had connected with the iron rod hurt. It hurt less, though, with Illya’s hand on it. Napoleon closed his eyes and relaxed. He’d wondered. He’d wondered while they’d been talking, and he’d never fully relaxed because he hadn’t known what Illya would do. Now, though, with Illya’s hand on him... he didn’t know why, but now he _knew_ that things would be okay. 

“Then Gaby jumped on him,” Illya chuckled, an admiring tone laced through the sound. 

Opening his eyes again, Napoleon raised an eyebrow, or tried to. There was a hand on his forehead that stopped the movement. Fingers were gently stroking, and it felt good.

Illya shrugged. “Little spitfire. Will make fine agent for British, with training.” He dropped his hand and scowled. “You, though. Why did you not make sure of him first? You had opportunity.”

Napoleon winced. That had been a mistake. Just like the alarm on the vault door. He’d seen that Alexander was unconscious, and had gone on to Gaby without a second thought. It was stupid of him. “I didn’t realize...” He wasn’t sure what his assumptions had been there. Gaby had been hurt and needed him, but Illya was right that he should have secured Alexander first.

This time, Illya raised both hands to touch, one on Napoleon’s shoulder, the other on the side of his head. “You felt guilty,” he said.

Napoleon frowned and would have turned away, but Illya’s hands were keeping him there. “Guilty? For what?”

“For forcing the car down the ravine with Gaby in it. You knew she was exposed and unlikely to survive. So you went to her first.” Illya spoke matter of factly, as if he had been there all along.

“You fired at the tire first! You drove on the _inside_ of the road, and fired at the tire!” Napoleon wrenched himself out of Illya’s grip and turned blindly away, all his smooth calm torn away and knowing it but unable to stop himself. He could picture it, over and over again. The moment that Alexander had jerked the wheel and knocked Illya over. “You were on a motorcycle, for god’s sake. That was the best you could think of? To let yourself get killed so I could have an opportunity?”

He hadn’t known until Illya had thrown the motorcycle that the giant Russian was still alive. Nobody could have survived that. He’d forgotten that Agent Kuryakin was super-agent of the KGB. 

Large hands settled on his shoulders and held him while a comfortable warm weight rested against his back. He could feel Illya’s mouth brushing against his ear and felt his breath before he spoke.

“Couldn’t get angle from in front. Hoped shooting tire would throw him. He shouldn’t have had enough control to hit me.” The frown was in his voice, “Forgot racecar driver. As good as Gaby. My miscalculation.” A pause. “If my plan had worked, they would have gone over still. Both of them.” The shrug moved along Napoleon’s back. “She was spy. You are spy. We do what we have to do.”

As soon as Illya had accepted what Waverly had told them in the helicopter, that Gaby was his agent, he’d forgiven Gaby. To him, it was no longer a betrayal, because she’d been following orders. It said a lot about Illya’s own KGB training and how he would do anything – anything at all – if the KGB ordered it. Including shooting his partner to obtain vital information. Napoleon really should have taken that into consideration, yet somehow had overlooked it. It had come too close. 

Napoleon laughed bitterly. “So what makes you think I felt guilty?” His own feelings towards Gaby hadn’t really changed – he blamed himself much more than her for his time in the chair, and he still liked the spunky little mechanic. If anything, he was more wary of her as a spy than he had been of her being her own person, but they had talked on the carrier later after it was all over, and she’d apologized and everything was fine. Guilty, though... he didn’t do guilty. Not for himself.

“Because that’s what you do, Cowboy, when you think it was you. You rescue people from impossible situations, without regard to the rest.” Illya shifted his arms all the way around, holding Napoleon in a backwards embrace. “Like you rescued me from water.”

“That was different,” Napoleon said tiredly, though he couldn’t help leaning into Illya’s hold. 

Illya chuckled. “If you say so.” He kissed the corner of Napoleon’s jaw, nibbling along the bone lightly.

Before he could stop himself, Napoleon asked, “What about Gaby?” He could have kicked himself the moment the words came out of his mouth. He was _not_ jealous, he didn’t care in the least. This was nothing.

Illya’s hold around him kept Napoleon from moving away. There was a sigh in his ear. “She is strong woman, but is Waverly’s spy. Bad idea.”

As of yesterday night when they’d all stumbled wearily back to the hotel for one last night of sleep, the chemistry had still been sizzling between the other two, but apparently nothing had happened. “So what am I?” Oh, his mouth really was off its leash today, and his charm too. He hadn’t even had that drink yet, but was increasingly in need of one. He blamed... he didn’t even know what to blame for this break in his control, but he didn’t like it.

Now that he’d asked the question, though... if the Russian told him one more time that Napoleon wasn’t a real spy, he swore to god he was going to kick his ass.

Illya rumbled, almost another laugh but not quite, the sound reverberating through Napoleon’s body pressed into his. Illya’s hands roamed over Napoleon’s chest, soothing him back into him with the touches. “No rules for you, Cowboy. Wild, Wild West, making your own way and dragging all others with you.”

Napoleon liked the sound of that. He turned in Illya’s arms, leaning up to kiss him.

Illya hummed into the kiss, holding them together but not letting Napoleon deepen it too much, no matter how much the other teased at the entrance between his lips. Eventually he pulled back, staring into Napoleon’s eyes. “Unique and different. I have never met anybody like you before, Cowboy, and I doubt I ever shall again.” He touched Napoleon on the bridge of the nose, stroking down until his finger left the edge. “No rules for you, and you break all others too. Were you even _trained_?”

For a brief moment, Napoleon bristled, and then let it go. He couldn’t be offended, not with Illya in his arms and after the admiration in his voice as he’d said it. “Not really. On the job training.” He shrugged. “Initially, they didn’t trust me not to disappear at some point, and later I’d already picked up enough to make it not worthwhile. Had some of the advanced training in special areas, but not the general stuff.”

“The CIA are fools,” Illya said flatly. “They should value you much more than they do.” He paused, considering. “And you still have exit plans, if you wanted.”

“Yes,” Napoleon didn’t think it was any great secret to admit that.

“I never had to have exit plans,” Illya said, his blue eyes troubled, and his voice sad.

There was an unspoken ‘before’ in that sentence. Napoleon wondered how much trouble Illya was going to be in for not completing the mission. He wondered what they were going to do about the disc. For now, though, what he wanted most to do was to chase that sad sound away. He reached up and tangled his hands in Illya’s blonde hair, pulling them together again.

Illya let himself be pulled and this time didn’t stop Napoleon from making the kiss deep and intense. 

Tongues inside each other, suckling and exploring, each trying to make their own way over and getting tangled as they met inside. 

The general temperature in the room shot up several degrees. Napoleon didn’t want to move away from the source of heat, and in fact wanted closer. Much closer. He pushed at Illya’s jacket, trying to work his way in through it.

Making his rumbling sound without words again, Illya ignored Napoleon’s efforts and instead moved his mouth down to Napoleon’s neck, kissing him along the edge of his collar. His large hands spread out over the thin shirt Napoleon was wearing, searing him right through. 

Napoleon abandoned his useless efforts on the jacket in favor of reaching up to hold Illya’s shoulders... which he couldn’t really feel through the jacket. He pulled away a step, “Peril, get rid of the damn jacket before I burn it.”

“Such a smooth talker,” Illya snorted as he stepped back, then took off his jacket, folding it briefly with its secrets inside and tossed it over Napoleon’s suitcases. His shoulder harness came off next, with a quick check to turn on the safety. He laid that down more carefully on the dresser. His backup, he walked to the bed and put under the pillow. 

Napoleon was working on his tie. “Presumptuous.” 

Not bothering to give that a reply, Illya disappeared into the living room. Napoleon turned to watch him as he first did a quick circuit of the room, checking the patio doors, then walked to the main door and locked it. Honestly, he was a little surprised that the agent hadn’t done that when he’d first come in. Too distracted, probably. 

With a scowl at the computer tape now resting on the settee next to his suitcases again, Napoleon defiantly tossed his tie on top of it. 

Illya came back in and raised an eyebrow at the gesture. Napoleon shrugged, working on the buttons on his shirt.

With a barely-there smile, Illya checked the bathroom and then leaned on the doorway to watch Napoleon undress.

Napoleon preened at the attention and the focus – he loved being admired, particularly by those who he was trying to seduce. 

“You will get new nickname – Peacock,” Illya remarked, amused. 

“I’ve always been a great believer that if you have it, flaunt it,” Napoleon replied easily, not offended in the least. He’d been called worse.

“While you meet aesthetic sensibilities, what is inside is better,” Illya said seriously. 

He kept watching all the same, so Napoleon didn’t do more than file it away. He noted, too, the combination of uncommon vocabulary with less than perfect sentence structure. He sometimes saw that with other highly intelligent foreign speakers. It was a tip-off for a person who had learned a language in a school rather than directly in the culture that spoke it. The structure issues sometimes fooled other people into missing the intelligence.

The other interesting thing was that Illya truly didn’t seem to be moved by beauty. Surrounded by it, possessed it himself, but didn’t react. He enjoyed watching Napoleon... for Napoleon. Not for his looks. Napoleon wasn’t entirely sure what to make with that. It was fairly unusual in his experience.

Napoleon finished with the buttons, including the wrists, but didn’t take the shirt off. Instead, he put his hands on his hips, deliberately moving so that the shirt billowed out around him. “Okay, now you’ve seen me without a shirt before, while I’ve never seen _you_ without that turtleneck.” 

“You’ve seen me in dress shirts. And felt me without.” Illya didn’t move, his eyes steady on Napoleon, and the slightest quirk of his lips. He made no move to remove the thin sweater.

This might take awhile. Napoleon sat down to untie his shoes. “Not the same.” Though the feeling had been absolutely delicious. 

“You’re sure?” 

Napoleon looked up, his eyes narrowing. There had been something in Illya’s tone, as bland as it was. And his face... nothing obvious was showing, but there was a glint in there that he recognized as the background of humor from before Illya started showing it more directly to him. He had no idea what was currently so amusing about Illya’s sweater, or the lack of it. Slowly, he replied in the affirmative, even though he knew he was being suckered into something. Sometimes the only way to find out what you wanted to know was to step into the trap – as long as you could get out again.

With a chuckle, Illya reached for the bottom of his turtleneck and then pulled it off.

Napoleon’s mouth dropped open. So much for his fantasy of seeing all that smooth, pale skin... Illya was wrapped from abdomen to nipples in support tape around his ribs, and bandaged above it on his right shoulder and down his arm, and there were more bandages showing above the waist along his left hip. The parts of him that weren’t covered in white tape were varying shades of motely reds and blues, parts deepening to purple. “Good lord, Illya!”

Illya shrugged, scratching at where the support tape ended on his abdomen. “Does not hurt too much,” he offered. 

“What sort of drugs do they have you on?” Toeing his shoes off now that they were untied, Napoleon stood up in his stocking feet and padded towards his friend.

“None that I am taking, other than the antibiotic,” Illya dryly replied. He touched the watch still on his wrist, running his fingers along the band. “Really, ribs were just bruised. Tape was precaution. If they were worse, downstairs would have popped them.”

The answer about the drugs was an outright lie, but one Napoleon wasn’t going to pursue – agents didn’t like to be vulnerable, and whatever Illya was on would leave him at less than his best. Napoleon went after the other part instead. “Downstairs?” 

Napoleon lightly touched Illya’s shoulder bandage, noticing how it was seeped in the middle with a draining wound. And if he was on penicillin, somebody thought there was a chance of infection. Abrasion? Or burn? Or pierced by something on that roll down the hill? The combat fatigues they’d been wearing were tough, but Illya’s fall had been more than most mortals could survive. He ran his hand up to the side of Illya’s neck, the most vulnerable part of any human. Illya hadn’t even been wearing a helmet.

“Um,” Illya flushed, though it wasn’t nearly as red as it had been the day before and didn’t spread far. “I was... upset. When they called.”

In other words, he’d had a temper tantrum. Napoleon had thought he’d heard the sounds of destruction below, but sounds didn’t travel as well upwards. They. His KGB handler. That explained why Illya knew to look for the tape now, when he’d had plenty of time to search this morning instead. Sanders had probably told... what was his name? Oleg. Then Oleg had promptly called Illya. Napoleon knew he shouldn’t have told Sanders.

With a sigh, Napoleon ran his hand lightly down over Illya’s arm, gentle with the bruises showing there as well, stopping his movement only when he got to his wrist and the watch there.

He would not ask what Illya would have done if Napoleon hadn’t had the watch. He wouldn’t.

Bringing the captured hand up to his mouth, Napoleon closed his eyes as he kissed first the back of it, then turned it over to press another into the palm.

“I am sorry,” Illya breathed, his voice low and tight. “I am sorry, Napoleon. I should never have... You saved my life.”

Napoleon held Illya’s hand and pressed his cheek to it, feeling the fingers curve to his contours. “You saved mine, the scales were equal.”

“There is no balance on that,” Illya said flatly. “I will not ever. Not again. No matter what they ask of me. I am sorry I ever even thought of it.”

The KGB had Illya for most of his life. Napoleon couldn’t even begin to think of the bonds they must have on him. “It’s okay,” he said.

Illya reached his other hand out and tipped Napoleon’s chin up, forcing the other to look at him. “It is not.”

Napoleon felt his mood lighten. “Are you trying to talk me out of forgiving you? Won’t work, Peril.” He smiled, feeling it reach to his eyes as well, seeing Illya react in confusion to the look.

“You weren’t going to shoot me in the back, Peril. You were practically shouting something was wrong from the moment you walked in. Forcing me to it. Shoot-out at the O.K. Corral was what you were after.” Napoleon had no idea how that would have ended up if they’d gone through with it.

Illya shut his eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. He was starting to tremble again, his fingers shaking within Napoleon’s grasp. 

Pretty good evidence that it wasn’t just anger that set Illya off, though there was plenty of that too. Napoleon wondered if it was just emotions in general, and that a young boy with a disgraced father just happened to have more anger, or would fight more. There wasn’t all that much call for other emotions in the spy business, usually.

Napoleon kept his hold on Illya’s hand and leaned in to kiss him gently, breathing into his mouth, remembering how he’d breathed for him while swimming in the port. “Breathe, my Red Peril. It’s okay. Follow me.”

With the hand not holding Illya’s, Napoleon stroked over his chest, tracing over the top of the bindings, and lightly combing through the hair above it. Dry hair, this time. Not a lot up this high, there was probably more trapped under the bandages. Unless the hospital had shaved it. Napoleon hoped not – he liked his men with a bit of friction, and not the sharp ends of shaved hairs. 

Illya leaned into Napoleon, returning the kiss slightly more desperately, taking the offered breath. Napoleon could feel the fingers along his cheek struggling not to grip. He lightly moved his own fingers along Illya’s, trying to connect without withdrawing. After a moment, Illya’s hand moved to tangle in Napoleon’s hair. At that point, Napoleon stopped following and returned the gesture. There was something just really primal and right about fingers in hair. Probably back to their money backgrounds, but it was a sure-fire way of telling if somebody was truly interested or not. Muss up a woman’s hair, and she would either slap you or drag you into bed. Men were less picky, generally, though more domineering. Illya was no exception, and with his size and training, it was more intense than normal. Or maybe that was just them.

“Take them off,” Illya said, pulling his mouth slightly away from Napoleon’s, though he moved back for another lick across the lips after he’d said that.

“Um?” Napoleon chased Illya’s mouth.

“The bandages. Take them off me. I want...” Illya didn’t finish the thought, nor did he actually step away, which would have been a good first start for actually removing them.

Taking the challenge up, Napoleon swept his hands over Illya’s back and sides, feeling for where the bindings were tucked in. Front was more likely, but he could do that later. He brought his kisses down Illya’s jaw and along the side of his neck. Illya groaned and tilted his head back so Napoleon could have better access.

Oh, there, left... well, Illya’s right side, upper edge. They’d started the wrap low and went up. Napoleon’s fingers were used to working complex locks in little light. He quickly figured out the clips that held the edge and undid them, letting them fall on the floor.

And while he’d been distracted with the bindings, he’d spent more time than he intended on Illya’s neck. There was going to be a heck of hickey there later on. Well, it probably wouldn’t be noticeable with all the other bruises. Illya, at least, seemed to appreciate it, mumbling in meaningless Russian while his body changed from the trembling into a different sort of tension. His hand was on Napoleon’s hip again, as it had been in their other encounters – Napoleon was starting to think it belonged there. 

Flicking the top of the binding out, Napoleon let it unwind itself mostly, just keeping his fingers involved enough to make sure it didn’t tangle. His mouth he moved to Illya’s again – kissing the large Russian was fast becoming his new favorite hobby. A wish for more of it crept up into his awareness, and he ruthlessly pushed it away. He didn’t do repeats for long, and after this, there would be no more. Better not to even contemplate it. 

As the last of the binding finally fell to the floor, Napoleon disengaged and stepped back to look. Illya’s hands trailed off him, but he didn’t follow, letting Napoleon have the space. Instead, he breathed deeply, wincing slightly as he did so, but taking the opportunity to fill his lungs completely as they probably hadn’t had a chance to since the night before.

Napoleon winced. Oh yes, that _had_ to hurt. Pretty much one solid bruise along his whole right side and another one on his left. Red, red, red in the middle, deepening to a dark purple on the edges. It was pretty, in an abstract way, but he hated seeing it on his friend.

“We could turn out light, if distracting. You work better in dark.” Amusement lanced Illya’s voice. 

Raising his head to meet the shining blue eyes with a glint of mischief, Napoleon contemplated whether he should glare or laugh. Either would be an appropriate reaction.

Before he could do either, Illya turned, moving to sit on the bed. His back was as bruised as the front. “Want to check for damaged ribs?” 

That decided it. Napoleon’s mouth turned up, reaching all the way to his eyes. “Don’t mind if I do,” he agreed, purring out the words and prowling up to his Russian.

Along the way, he shrugged out of his shirt, letting it drop to the floor. They were both wearing pants, but those weren’t too hard to take care of. Illya’s boots, though... Napoleon dropped to his knees and reached for them. 

Illya’s hand settled in his hair while Napoleon bent over the boots, lightly tugging him forward.

Well, Napoleon was pretty good at doing several things at once, why not indulge the Russian? He glanced ahead, noticing that the pants were quite well filled out, though not as much as they could be. He could probably increase that quite a bit. 

Letting his fingers drift down to the ties on Illya’s boots, Napoleon leaned forward, letting the light grip on his head guide him inwards. He paused before his nose hit cloth and breathed in the scent of musk and aroused male. He probably smelled much the same. Two scents mingling and edging each other further over. He and Illya, running down the same corridor towards the exit, movements in sync and coordinating without having to talk. 

Napoleon nuzzled the bulge beneath the cloth, rubbing his nose and mouth over it, tracing the outlines, and feeling the movement underneath. Illya groaned low in his throat and his hand tightened in Napoleon’s hair before he loosened again.

Slipping off one boot, Napoleon started with the next. He paused when he realized this was the one with the knife sheath, and risked pulling his head back and looking down to make sure of that first. 

“Hand it up,” Illya said impatiently.

Taking the knife out, Napoleon did so. Illya stretched over on the bed and slipped it under the pillow next to the gun. 

“Is that a good idea?” A gun on safety was one thing, but an unsheathed knife while they were messing around...

Illya thought about that for a moment, then took it out again and in a quick move, drove it into the side of the mattress. Napoleon winced, though he had to admit it took care of the problem while leaving it close to hand.

He turned back to the boot and quickly got it off, eager to return to the other task.

With both mouth and fingers this time, he coaxed the jemson under the pants to the point where it was straining the fabric near to splitting. His Red Peril above him was muttering in incomplete Russian again, bitten off filthy sounding phrases. Napoleon really needed to expand his language skills in that area. 

Grinning at his success, Napoleon used the dexterity in his fingers to finally unbutton the pants. There was just barely enough give left for him to slip one hand in and push Illya down enough that he could bring down the zipper with the other without risk of damaging this delicious part of his partner. He was glad to see it apparently hadn’t been hurt before. Not from the way it was so eager for him and his touch, reaching out of the slot in the white shorts, weeping on the tip and stretching the foreskin.

He remembered the last time he’d done his, and his desire to experiment more. Here was a good chance... Napoleon reached out without any preparation and gave a couple good, solid strokes. Just as he’d noticed before, the foreskin helped his hand move up and down the shaft without catching at all, and the head was already moist and waiting for him. Almost without conscious decision, Napoleon was leaning in to taste.

Illya let out a groan and his fingers for a moment tightened to the point of pain. Before Napoleon could say anything, Illya had let go and moved his hands to the bed instead.

Napoleon hummed in thanks, his mouth busy around the cap. The taste wasn’t really any different – just more intensely Illya skin. It was a taste he liked quite well. Not the honey he ate more often, but a lighter flavor. It was getting to the fruit that was harder to do. Coconut milk, with the thick outer layer of defenses. He wondered how he’d made it through. 

Sex was one thing... what they were doing now was something else. He felt it in his bones, but couldn’t stop, didn’t want to. All his senses were screaming danger at him, that he had gone too far, but this danger was heady and exciting, thrumming along his senses, drawing him on, making him explore where he’d not gone before. 

The danger was minimal, after all. The mission was over – once they figured out what to do with the tape – and then there would only be memories and regret. Those, he could deal with later. For now... make the memories.

Drawing off, leaving his hand there to keep company, Napoleon looked up to see what his work had wrought. 

Illya was gorgeous. Body tensed and arched, muscles standing out in all their perfection, despite the coloration on top of the skin. His hands were on the bed slightly behind him, bracing his body up, his forearms showing the tension there as well. His face... it was a little hard to see from this angle, but there was pleasure there, mouth open, breath deep and loud.

Napoleon had to stand up and take that mouth for his own, Illya’s body lowering as he did so until they were both on the covers, Napoleon with one knee on the bed, the other leg between Illya’s thighs. Illya hummed into Napoleon’s mouth, his hands coming up around to spread out on Napoleon’s back, holding him close.

Here was a taste. Sweeping through, swallowing, taking the other in, as much as Illya was doing as well. Sharing even as they tangled together. Rolling now on the bed as Illya shifted to the top, without disengaging from what they had that was too intense to be called a kiss. Their claiming. 

Illya moved his mouth aside to Napoleon’s jaw and then just held there for a long moment, resisting Napoleon’s efforts to get him back. It was another thrill to the danger, to realize just how over matched he was in sheer strength. Illya’s eyes were closed, his hand resting along the side of Napoleon’s face. 

Then Illya moved back entirely and stood up, impatiently taking his pants off entirely, shorts quickly following, then socks. 

Good idea. Napoleon sat up and reached for his own, only to have his hands batted away and an intense Russian spy focusing his entire attention on doing it for him. Danger in every corner and edge, every touch of fingers, every brush of skin, every time their eyes met with a message they shared but would not speak.

Illya didn’t spend much time getting rid of Napoleon’s pants, shorts, and socks, just briskly striped him down. Napoleon would have played more, but he had to admit that efficiency was good too. 

To distract himself from the danger that was inherent in meeting the Russian’s eyes, Napoleon focused on the mottling over Illya’s left hip and thigh. It was deeper and nastier than the bruising along the rest of his body, showing intense trauma. There had been bandages over it, which Illya had pulled off with his pants. _Where Alexander’s car hit him_ , Napoleon realized. Maybe Illya really wasn’t on any pain medication, simply too numb for anything to hurt anymore. At least he wasn’t numb to everything.

“Maybe I _should_ turn out the lights,” Illya rumbled. 

Napoleon looked up to see the blonde giant standing above him, looking down with a fondly exasperated expression. “It is not like you are untouched.” Illya reached out and touched Napoleon’s forehead, stroking down to his chin, then dropping his hand to Napoleon’s chest, where the banding had finally come in a broad stripe of bruising. He captured Napoleon’s wrist, gently caressing where the skin was still healing.

The last few days hadn’t been all that gentle on any of them. Napoleon shrugged, apologizing for the intensity of his focus. But still, the Russian’s bodywork outdid his by some astronomical factor.

Then Illya walked to the doorway and put actions to words, flipping the switch and turning out the light. With the afternoon light streaming in from the windows, it wasn’t really dark, but it did mute the intensity inside and made bruises look more like shadows.

With a sigh, Napoleon flopped back on the bed, then sat up again and turned down the covers, crawling in and lying flat. “You’re on top.” It would keep Napoleon’s weight off the injuries.

Illya chucked. “We will see.” He sat sideways on the bed, the mattress sinking under him, and regarded the length of Napoleon with lowered eyes. Touching Napoleon lightly along his collarbone, caressing the skin there, he then ran his hand all the way down, over nipple, along ribs, past the abdomen, ending up on his favorite hip.

“A little further down,” Napoleon suggested politely.

Obligingly, Illya shifted his weight and then continued the movement... down over Napoleon’s thigh, past his knee, along the calf, and ending with a hand curled around his ankle. 

Meeting the mischievous grin, Napoleon couldn’t help laughing. He’d asked for it, after all. He reached his arms up, inviting without words. Words got him in trouble.

Illya responded, coming into Napoleon’s arms and resting his weight on top, gravity pulling him into the other body and neither of them doing anything to mitigate it. He turned his face into the side of Napoleon’s neck and breathed there, kissing gently.

Napoleon’s arms were full of large Russians, giant blondes, inhuman agents, contradictions in nature – angry and gentle, harsh and humorous, proud and yielding, ruthless and kind. His body sank into the mattress under the weight, his heart lurched in confusion under the feeling. He ran his hands up and down Illya’s back, murmuring words he wasn’t sure about before he clamped down tight on his voice.

Body shifting on body, skin sliding along skin... and a few bandages not taken off. 

Impatiently, Illya rolled to the side and ripped them off, tossing them over the side of the bed. Catching the frown Napoleon directed at him, Illya shrugged. “You can redo, after.”

At this point, it probably didn’t make much difference. Napoleon nodded, then also rolled to the side and edged his way closer. 

Illya came back to him again, this time side by side as they explored each other’s bodies with as much touching as they could. Fingers dancing along each other’s body, their legs tangling between each other, feet running along shins, mouths and tongues going where they would. 

Napoleon’s body was burning hot, Illya’s just as much. Sweat was forming along their skin, aiding in the sliding, encouraging more licking. Napoleon could live off this liquid all by itself, drinking Illya in, absorbing him through the senses. 

His senses were exploding. Sight, sound, hearing, touch, taste... all of him was focused on Illya – and himself. For as much as he was exploring Illya, his friend was exploring him.

He was being touched, licked, stroked, explored... _worshiped_ , memorized. Care in every finger that ran along his skin. Delight in every kiss that meandered from face to belly and below. Concentration in the tongue that swept out to take his sweat in and swallow. Murmurs of not quite completed words that matched his own sounds and deliberately made as little sense. Wonder in the eyes that periodically met his own. 

For as much as Napoleon knew about sex, and considered himself a master of, there were apparently things he hadn’t known before. Hadn’t _wanted_ to know. Didn’t want to now either, not really. However he was experiencing them despite himself, the cowboy’s horse running out beneath him along the trail and him along for the ride. Reciprocating as much as he could and at the same time gibbering in fear inside himself, knowing that this time he had pushed the danger too far. That he was out on a ledge, sneaking through a window after disabling the alarms, breaking into a safe... and forgetting that not all safes were made to the same model, or had been modified after leaving the factory. This one... this safe had been guarded well, but now that he was inside, it was slamming shut again, trapping him there. And worse, making him feel glad to be there.

Was it possible to die from too much pleasure? Napoleon had always counted that as a myth before, other than sometimes having a heart attack in the middle of it. Now, however, he feared he might have reconsider his position. But what a wonderful way to go.

“Napoleon.”

Napoleon glanced up at the way his name was deep-slurred, thick and viscous in Illya’s mouth. Illya’s pupils were blown, eclipsing all but a small ring of the iris. Quicker than thought, Napoleon reached out to grab the base of Illya’s jemson, holding tight.

Illya blinked, pulled back from the depths at the last second, and not entirely pleased about it. His hand wrapped around Napoleon’s wrist. “Cowboy?”

“I want it _all_ ,” Napoleon growled, letting go and then crawling up Illya’s body until he got to his mouth. “You can’t come this soon.” Then he took him in a savage kiss, darting his tongue in and out while rocking his hips on Illya’s to illustrate his meaning.

Another roll, and Illya was back on top again, his hands pinning Napoleon’s wrists to the bed and something mid-way between a purr and a growl rumbling through his chest. The kissing never stopped. 

Eventually, Illya pulled up, letting Napoleon’s wrists go. “Of course you do,” he said fondly. “When do you not, my reckless thief?”

Contentment and excitement both thrummed through Napoleon’s body. He stared up hungrily. “You top.”

“Are you sure?” Illya grinned. “Did not work so well at shipyard.”

“Just don’t switch in the middle and we’ll be fine,” Napoleon returned the laugh.

“This time, perhaps—” Illya started, and then stopped, turning his head abruptly away. He didn’t leave it in silence, though, filling in with, “And you have something to help?”

There was a reason Napoleon wanted it all now. He looked towards the bathroom, then remembered he’d already packed. “Suitcase, orange toiletry bag.”

Illya nodded, slightly subdued, and climbed off Napoleon to walk to the end of the bed. 

He was sure Illya could find it, but it would be quicker if he helped. Napoleon sat up and then crawled so he was laying the opposite direction in the bed, watching Illya’s hands go to the wrong suitcase first. “That one,” Napoleon pointed to the end one with the jacket hanging over it. 

Illya tossed his jacket to the floor, then also one of Napoleon’s shirts that had been on top. He paused at the sight of the gun unholstered in the case, but he didn’t comment and instead picked up the orange bag.

“Hand it here,” Napoleon sat up to rummage through it and pull out the nondescript plain brown bottle he wanted. He handed the rest of the bag to Illya and then returned to the front of the bed while Illya was walking around.

Before getting into the bed again, Illya stopped and looked at Napoleon. His eyes went from top to bottom and then back again, slowly, carefully, taking everything in. 

With an attentive audience, Napoleon leaned against the headboard, stretching out, drawing one knee up and letting the other leg fall open so there would be a sight of other things below as well.

“Peacock,” Illya rumbled, sounding both amused and appreciative. He idly stroked himself with one large hand as he watched. 

A giant Russian standing naked and poised... _his_ Red Peril standing there... Napoleon wished he was an artist, to draw the sight and immortalize it, for him to keep always with him. But not to be displayed in any public gallery, or even a private one. This would be a painting for him, and him alone, never to be shared. Yet it was no statue of cold marble in front of him, but a real human, and one who had turned to flesh while Napoleon had watched over the days. He held his hand out.

His Peril came to him. Drawn by the outstretched hand, drawn by _Napoleon_. Napoleon knew he wasn’t the only one who could melt the interior, but he was the one who had him now, and that was what counted, after all. He kissed Illya’s knuckles, lingering there, pouring the charm and romance that had won him countless priceless artifacts into it. 

_What do you know?_ Napoleon reflected with a quick glance up between his eyelashes. The blush really did go all the way down. It was really quite endearing.

Taking his hand away with a lingering set of fluttering touches with his fingers, Napoleon watched for a moment more until Illya came to himself enough to notice the bottle Napoleon had slipped into his grip. Before Illya could react to it, Napoleon shifted downward in the bed and rolled with his stomach down, his knee still partially tucked under him. 

He heard Illya’s intake of breath, and felt the way the mattress dipped. A now-familiar hand stroked along his back, beside his spine, with just enough pressure to make him arch his back. His butt was cupped, fingers pressing in firmly to his flesh. Then a mouth on the back of his neck, kissing and suckling there. Napoleon groaned, knowing the prelude well, yet with complete awareness that it was Illya behind him doing this.

A large hand held his shoulder and gently tugged, urging him to roll to one side. Puzzled, Napoleon did so, turning to face Illya who was now on his side as well. He raised an eyebrow. “Second thoughts?”

“No,” Illya flashed a grin, showing his teeth. “Just will take time. Want you between.” He reached down to lightly stroke Napoleon’s jemson on the way by, then moved behind, tracing the smooth surface between and making Napoleon moan before a slicked finger traced his opening and tapped it lightly. 

Napoleon was no stranger to back door entrances, but he had to admit that with Illya’s size, more time was probably not a bad idea. He kissed Illya’s cheek and ran his hands through the delightful chest hair, caressing a nipple along the way. Illya’s eyes were unfocused with his attention below, however he hummed in response to Napoleon’s actions.

The first finger went in fairly easily, if more slowly than Napoleon would have liked. “Not a delicate flower, here, Peril,” Napoleon grunted, shifting his weight to see if he could draw Illya in more. The position wasn’t the easiest for that, though.

“You are paying too much notice,” Illya chided.

Well, yes...

Illya kissed Napoleon soundly, diverting his attention in the best of ways, accompanying his finger’s movements with tongue and his other hand. Napoleon let himself be overwhelmed, returning as good as he got on the kissing front, and letting his body relax on the others. 

Illya’s hands roved over Napoleon’s body, sometimes dipping around to the back, and sometimes not. Napoleon stopped trying to figure out when and where it would happen and instead returned the roaming trend. There were times he could be a passive receiver of attentions, but this wasn’t one of them. He wanted to give back as much as he took, and brand it all in his memory.

Some time later, Illya kissed him again, then edged away, creating room on the bed between them. “If you would?”

“Be so kind?” Napoleon added what was commonly the second half of the phrase. The bafflement on Illya’s face was a fun reminder that his friend was not common at all. Grinning, Napoleon rolled to his chest, a knee bent between as he had been before.

Large hands went first upon his shoulders, kneading into the muscles there, then worked their way down his back. 

While Napoleon appreciated that the Russian didn’t just take and go, he did want for a bit more action at times. He’d gotten used to the slower approach by now, though, and relaxed into it, enjoying the near-massage. 

When the hands reached the end of his spine, they continued on working his ass, which felt really, really good. The muscles in that part didn’t often get a lot of attention, and after the very active days they’d had, forget the sex, just the massage alone felt wonderful. When Illya slipped his fingers in, Napoleon barely noticed. Then he blinked a little. When had he gotten loosened up enough for... okay, there was more than one or two fingers there. Three? Maybe there was something to the mad Russian’s slow distracting methods.

Illya curved his fingers, and oh, there... now Napoleon noticed. He gasped and arched. Illya did it again, and again, and Napoleon started gibbering, jerking his hips in a plea for more. After a few moments where there was no more, and when the spots in front of his eyes cleared up some, Napoleon turned his head to look behind him. “Peril...” He would have liked to say something either more biting or otherwise sarcastic or smooth but his vocabulary and words failed him.

He didn’t need to say more, though, as Illya nodded, his lip caught in his teeth, and then the fingers went away for a moment before he was being pressed into. Firm and relentless and oh, so good. So very, very good. Napoleon heard a low moan from Illya as he was pushing in, and he harmonized with his own. 

Without fully settling, Illya started moving in and out in both short and long movements, testing, checking, adjusting as they both adapted. Here, as well as everything else they did, they worked well together. No speaking, just picking up the cues and responding to them. Pleasure rolling through, feeding off each other as well as simply their own.

The feelings that were body alone and had nothing to do with anything other than the hedonistic pleasure of the senses were building up, getting stronger and stronger. Napoleon’s face was pressed into the pillow and he could care less, hearing his breath panting as he gasped in air and cried it out again. 

Then the bastard withdrew. Napoleon lay there for a long moment unmoving and bereft. 

Before he could summon thoughts enough for words, he was turned on his side, and re-entered from that direction. This time, the gliding was smoother, slower, a gentle shower on the senses rather than an assault. An arm went over and around him, wrapped around his chest, holding him near so his back brushed against Illya’s chest with every gentle rock. 

Napoleon sighed and in return held Illya’s arm, fingers wrapped around the strong forearm, contributing his part to holding them together as they kept moving. He could feel Illya’s mouth on the back of his neck, gentle there too. 

“Illya, I want to see...”

“Not yet, lyu... moy vor.”

Napoleon’s mind whirred into gear. _My thief_ , he translated. He had no idea what Illya had started to say before he switched. He didn’t want to know. He tucked his head down and closed his eyes and concentrated on everything else but that.

This time, he almost expected the withdrawal, and the shifting of his body to another position, this time on his back. But instead of his legs being raised, despite the movement he started to make for it, Illya gave reinforcement to the idea that he might have an oral fixation by moving down Napoleon’s body and revisiting body parts with tongue and mouth and swallowing. His fingers kept the back door open without drawing too much attention there.

After enjoying it and encouraging it with more verbalizations that showed his pleasure, and hands curled in blonde hair that alternately stroked and guided, Napoleon realized he was enjoying it a bit too much. “Peril, enough...”

There was no stopping. 

Napoleon tried again, politely, “Too close...”

Nothing, unless you counted fingers stroking inside added to the mix.

Napoleon dug his fingers in and pulled, using the sequence of Russian curses he knew.

Laughter was not the effect he was going for, but at least it did have Illya pulling off and wiping his mouth through his chuckles. 

“Cowboy, you need some training still.”

“So train me,” Napoleon suggested brashly before he remembered.

Illya’s lips curved up, his eyes crinkling. “Dangerous suggestion.” He stretched and then came up for more kisses, which Napoleon freely gave him. Less dangerous than talking, in many ways. Or more. It all depended.

With a last nibble to Napoleon’s swollen lips, Illya scooted down again, this time placing his hands on Napoleon’s legs. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready for the last geologic epoch,” Napoleon complained, lifting his legs and bending them in towards his chest. The laughter Illya gave in return was pure music. 

Illya pushed in again. Sliding along the now well-traveled path, running alongside the hot spot and reducing Napoleon’s vocabulary again. Hopefully his own as well.

Yes. This. Them. Sliding in and out and pushing within to the pleasure of both. Napoleon could feel Illya’s fingers on his skin, his body rubbing against his own. He could hear the grunts Illya made as well as the gasps and bitten off maybe words. His eyes were closed and he couldn’t see anything except in his mind.

“Peril,” Napoleon managed a word, danger and pleasure both. 

A pause in the motions and then his lips were captured again, briefly, his legs aching with the bend. Then Illya moved back and resumed, and Napoleon opened his eyes.

Illya’s were shut this time, but it didn’t lessen his beauty. His blonde hair was messy, bangs falling any which way over his forehead, which was crinkled in concentration. Sweat dripped off his nose and cheeks. His mouth was open. Pleasure was writ upon his face.

Napoleon _wanted_ fiercely. He was already getting just about everything there could possibly be, his desire fired and senses spiraling ever higher with every shift. The elevations had risen many times this day, only for another turn, another hill, up further than before. This time they were approaching the cliff. He still wanted. Wanted...

Illya opened his eyes and their gazes met.

This is why they hadn’t been looking before.

Raw, primal, absolute _need_ that was in both of them. Connecting and sizzling, driving through the mind as surely as they were physically acting it out. 

Illya gasped, turning his head briefly, before coming back to the thread between them. “Cowboy,” he said with his Russian accent strong on the syllables, his voice breaking and his body shuddering.

Napoleon reached to grab Illya’s left wrist, his fingers digging the watch into Illya’s skin. Then, holding on with his hand, he let himself go. 

His vision grayed out, and he could vaguely feel himself arching in an impossible bend, his own voice yelling loud enough to break sound-proofing, but it was outside of him, something known, his senses having all overloaded in one explosion. Remotely, he could hear Illya’s voice joining with his, a chorus across the landscape, mountains away.

He held on, even as he continued to fade, even as a larger body collapsed onto his own, his legs released and unfolding to more natural positions.

With the greatest effort of will, he used the hand not holding a wrist, and flopped his arm across Illya’s back, limply resting there. Illya turned his head so his mouth was against Napoleon’s neck, his breathing warm and moist across his skin. 

They stayed there, outside of time, until feeling begin to return.

...

Eventually, they moved, because they had to. But they didn’t move far. Just shifted around until they were lying next to each other, arms holding close, legs intertwined, and slow, leisurely kisses being exchanged. They were sticky and slightly uncomfortable and sweat was drying on them, but they ignored that for now. For now, being where they were was more important. 

Words were not exchanged, There was nothing to be said, nothing that _could_ be said. They both knew it, and simply did not push that boundary. 

Napoleon had spent a lot of time in beds. He had spent a lot of time in arms afterwards, being held, holding to others. He couldn’t say that the sex they’d just had was the best he’d ever had in his life, though it definitely ranked pretty high, and he couldn’t say that this was the most comfortable post-sex cuddling he’d ever had. But it was with Illya, his stoic Red Peril, who had come into his life so angry and hostile, resistant to everything about Napoleon, frustrated to be working with him, and now look at them. Napoleon’s favorite hobby for awhile had been needling the other agent, poking at him, watching him react, and then doing it some more. He had, apparently, done too good a job at it. Or something. 

Napoleon breathed and put those thoughts from him. Instead, he snuggled a little more inside the large, warm arms and squirmed down so he could rest his head on Illya’s chest. 

A kiss was pressed to the top of his head, and a hand stroked down his spine. 

Illya really did make the best teddy bear. A Russian bear. Napoleon grinned and thought of all the ways he could tease him about that. Maybe a doll, or a real teddy bear that he could put a sickle and hammer on. 

He wondered what Illya was thinking. 

Resolutely, he shoved his mind away from all else that was out there still, and concentrated on just being in the here and now.

The problem was, he was now wide awake, they had gotten the adrenaline out of the way, and he didn’t do well at simple.

“I think you need distraction, Cowboy,” Illya’s voice came from above him, rumbling with amusement and a fair bit of exasperation. 

Napoleon was manhandled into rolling over onto his back, staring up at the twinkling blue eyes, the corners of the lips upturned before the face got too close for him to focus on and he was being kissed again. 

Then Illya made his way down Napoleon’s body again, with hands and mouth, this time more of a leisurely affair, stopping along the way to trace out the different pale scars, though he didn’t ask about any of them out loud. He made his way from head to toe like this, then he rolled Napoleon over and went up again the same way. 

There was no protest that Napoleon wanted to make for the man-handling or the exploration, and he instead aided Illya in all of it, shifting as needed to make better room, not taking his turn until the other was done. They could have made this, too, a competition, but that wasn’t where they were now.

Napoleon had had people explore him before, usually during sex, but sometimes afterwards as well. None of them _understood_ what it was upon his body nearly as well as the other agent. Which was not to say all of his bed-partners had been civilians – he’d had his share of CIA and other enemies; danger was the spice of life, after all. It was just...

Maybe it wasn’t all that different, really, what Illya was doing to him physically. It was the way that Napoleon felt about what was being done that made the difference. 

And that was one of those places where Napoleon had sworn he wasn’t going to go. He impatiently waited for his turn, and when Illya was done feeling through his hair and kissing his neck and ear lobes, he flipped Illya over and started his own exploration.

Illya laughed, a sound rich with amusement and delight. “So impatient, Cowboy. And you call me a kettle.”

“Pot,” Napoleon murmured back as he traced the scaring next to Illya’s eye. Flash burn, it looked like. Or maybe shrapnel. It was an unusual rayed pattern, and stretched out and faded. Pretty old. He didn’t ask. Just kissed it softly and then kept moving down. “I’m the kettle.” Kettles were more elegant than pots. 

There were more scars on Illya’s body than there were upon Napoleon’s. Not that he’d expected anything else, especially since he remembered the feel of many of them. Those were the larger ones, the ones made by bullets and knives, or just left to heal on their own, or stiches pulled out before they could heal completely. He couldn’t always tell the what, but there was a pattern of non-limits there. The injuries from yesterday were similar – more internal this time, other than the shoulder, but with the same disregard of them. Illya truly didn’t seem to feel the pain as much. If Napoleon was this battered, he would have been down for the count ages back. Maybe he was just so used to blocking pain it had become automatic. Or conditioned to do so... Napoleon wondered darkly how many of the scars might be from training. 

As he’d noted before, though, whatever was keeping the pain away didn’t seem to block Illya’s ability to feel other things, like Napoleon’s fingers upon his skin, and the way he rubbed over his belly.

Illya squirmed under the touch, which only encouraged Napoleon on. “Napoleon!” Illya bit out as he tried to get away without actually moving his body away. It didn’t work too well, and Napoleon grinned his evilest grin.

Finally, Illya grabbed Napoleon and flipped both of them over so he was on top again. Underneath, Napoleon kept the smile plastered on, and as soon as a hand was released, he went straight for the underbelly again.

With a startled squawk, Illya let go of Napoleon completely, then ducked back to avoid another touch. He flopped face down on the bed next to Napoleon instead, hugging the mattress. “You are _evil_ , Cowboy. Unfair you are not ticklish as well.”

“I know,” Napoleon said smugly, spreading himself out over the broad back and working his way down that as well.

After Napoleon finished, they turned to each other again and snuggled. Two grown men, both agents of their countries, who had killed more people than they could count, and they rested in each other’s arms as if they were teenagers. Maybe they needed it more than teenagers. 

They would have to get up soon. There were still things that needed doing, decisions that needed to be made. But for a while longer... just for a while longer, maybe they could have this instead.

...

* * *

End Chapter Three  
(No sex in Chapter Four, just tying up the loose ends.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When they were discussing about who was doing the clean-up on the estates, I had planned to make it the Brits primary and then have a sentence about how they wouldn’t be the worst of countries to get it if there was another copy. Then I wiki’d to make sure I was getting MI6 info correct. And couldn’t use that line anymore. O.O At that time period, the head of the British MI6 intelligence responsible for operations safeguarding on the Soviet Union... was a Soviet Union spy. I _almost_ turned that into a cryptic comment from Illya instead, but they got diverted into discussing trackers and bugs and there wasn’t a good place for it. Might make for an interesting future plot somewhere. Or at least a comment down the line about why Waverly was all gung-ho about setting up UNCLE. One has to suspect that he knew something about his own group wasn’t quite all up to snuff in there. See, it all makes sense!
> 
> In the fight with Alexander, he actually first wacked Napoleon on the wrist with the iron bar, knocking his gun out of his hand, then kicked him in the chin several times before he went for the gun. It was... um, a weird fight, honestly. I decided not to use the actual potential injuries (broken wrist, broken jaw) (since the movie didn’t either ;p – super-human spies, able to get up and walk through anything), and to put a different injury in place instead. More opportunities for touching. ^^
> 
> FYI, you’re not supposed to wrap bruised or broken ribs. It constricts the chest too much for proper breathing and can lead to pneumonia. But it was such a common practice that I decided to leave it in. Plus, I liked taking the bindings off. ^^ Just don’t do it yourself if it ever comes up. Movie-wise, Illya almost no injuries. Reality-wise, he should be dead. I decided to make a compromise between the two.
> 
> Oh, the things one researches for fic... Apparently circumcision dries out the natural lubricant of the penis (in two types) and the constant chaffing makes the glans thicken. With naturally intact penises, additional lube isn’t needed for masturbation or hand play. (Which is speculated as a reason why oral play is more common in the US than other countries, as circumcision in the US is a much higher percentage.)
> 
> Moy = my. Vor = thief. Lyubimyy = beloved/pet/darling/precious. (At least by online searching.) I didn’t want to put too much actual Russian in here, but that one slipped out through Illya’s lips.
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a fic with simple, guilt-free sex that was just too much adrenaline and two spies having fun along the way. Then the pwp blew up (thirty thousand words later o.o) and there was a lot more story and character along the way. And feelings. The feelings gradually creeped their way in there too. Do I really believe by the end of the movie that they were at that stage? No, not really. (I do, however, think they were firm friends by that point.) Do I like it in the imagination and the way the guys rewrote my story on me? Oh why not; this is fanfic, not reality. ^^ It was a little overly sugary by the end, but that was the way it went. I debated about taking it back down a notch and rewriting for less sap, but then decided to leave it that way. Hopefully you’ll like it. ^^
> 
> There are technically only three parts, but there's a fourth chapter because I decided to shove all the aftermath stuff onto its own epilogue section. No sex in the last part, sorry, just wrapping everything up.


	4. Chapter 4

They showered together, when they finally had to get up, scrubbing the dried sweat and stickiness off, and running their hands over each other in the warm water and moist steam. 

They dried off, mostly separately, though not entirely. Napoleon bandaged Illya’s shoulder again with a loose dressing. When he went to put the rib bindings back on, Illya waved him off. “No, I like breathing. They will be fine.” So instead, Napoleon kissed each of the bruises and booboos that were visible, and Illya did the same back to him.

Then they dressed, finding their scattered clothing and putting it back on a piece at a time. Again, mostly separately, but there were parts that each of them had a hand in. Illya, buttoning up Napoleon’s shirt, Napoleon, soothing out the turtleneck after it went on. Illya did Napoleon’s tie, both of them carefully ignoring the blue plastic that had been underneath it. Napoleon pulled the knife from his mattress and handed it back to Illya, who slipped it in its sheath. Illya looked towards the gun in Napoleon’s suitcase, but Napoleon shook his head. He would leave that where it was for now. 

Instead, he went to the bathroom counter and picked up the lone last item neither of them had been wearing in the shower. They’d remembered just in time. He came back with the watch and offered it to his friend. Illya looked at him for a long moment, then held his left hand out, waiting for Napoleon to strap it on.

“Who wears precious keepsakes on missions anyhow?” Napoleon muttered as he found the right grove to hook the watch’s strap in.

“Somebody who knows they will disappear otherwise,” Illya replied dryly. “Is safer with me, than elsewhere. There is no ‘keepsake’ when items are not valued.”

“People steal your stuff?” Napoleon was horrified. He’d never thought about that. When he tucked things away in safe houses, they stayed there.

Illya shrugged, not moving his hand from where Napoleon still held it. “Not steal. Redistribute. Items are too few to wait on return.” He looked at the watch. “It is not much on its own, just a watch. I do not even remember it from before. But it was in box they gave me, and I needed one. Now, it is all that is left. Two years away on mission took the rest.”

Napoleon raised Illya’s hand to his lips, sincere in the gesture as he rarely was. 

He would never get tired of seeing that blush.

With a last grin for the play and fun, Napoleon regretfully turned towards what they had been avoiding. “What are we going to do about that?”

With a sigh, Illya walked to the settee and picked up the computer disc. He turned it over in his hands, examining it. “As you said, it is decoy.” He put it down again, dismissing it.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

Illya gave him a flat stare. “No. Do not know, but doubt it. But that is what we will tell them. My people will believe it, or at least accept. If I fail, they do as well. Decoy... they will accept.”

“I have no idea how to tell if it’s a decoy or real,” Napoleon admitted. “Will they take your word for it?”

Illya nodded. “I have equipment to test. Not in detail, but at least to know if there is data on tape, and to read enough code for rough idea.” His lips curved up. “They will assume that is what has taken time.”

Hidden depths. Every time Napoleon had scratched the surface of the large, violent man, he found something different underneath. Came to berate him for beating young Italians up, and found a converted dark room. Ran through an aerospace yard with bullets all around them, and his partner knew all the parts to it. Chess. Electronics. Now computers as well. Napoleon itched to find out more. But they were out of time.

“And the real thing?” Napoleon had no doubt that Illya wouldn’t let him take it, and he didn’t really want to. Reminded of what it was, and what the stakes were... The U.S. wasn’t the most responsible party either. It had been, after all, six days after the first bomb that the second was dropped. Six days... and they still used it. He did not trust his own country with the information, nor any other. “We’ll destroy it.” It was the only possible solution left.

Again, Illya nodded, already there. “Burn it outside, where they can see,” he suggested. “They will still think one of us has real thing, so luggage will be searched. By multiple agencies. May not make it back intact. If there is anything you want, keep it on you.”

Napoleon grimaced, but the other agent was right. Their own handlers might, _might_ take their word for it, but nobody else would. He looked at his suitcases. Most of it was standard, and he’d already lost a great deal of his special... oh, right. He lifted the clothes out and opened the hidden compartment, eying what remained of his thieves’ kit. The lock picks that Illya had saved for him. He put the pack to one side and tried to figure out how he could possibly wear that with his suit and not have it be discovered. He did have his practical clothing as well, but...

Illya snorted and reached around Napoleon to pick up the kit. “Peacock feathers are pretty, but they drag the bird down. A peacock cannot fly.”

Napoleon had seen a peacock fly – he had to admit, it wasn’t a pretty sight. “But they win the ladies’ admiration more than the drab feathers of a raven,” he rejoined.

“Ravens are smarter.” Illya had to have the last word. He held the leather roll that wrapped the tools in his hands and considered it, turning his attention away from the light sniping. 

That gave Napoleon an idea. “You could—”

At the exact same moment, Illya spoke, “I could—”

They both broke off and waited for the other. After a few more moments, they inevitably started a round of ‘you first, no you’. Napoleon eventually won, purely from curiosity. After all, he knew what _he_ was going to say.

Even after Napoleon won, Illya almost didn’t speak. He shuffled his feet and looked anywhere but Napoleon. Whatever impulse had started him to say something was now fading under the more deliberate thought. Napoleon almost poked some more, but then simply waited.

“I could put them somewhere for you to find. Later.” Illya cast his eyes to the ground, sounding uncertain and hesitant. 

Napoleon drew in a breath. He hadn’t anticipated that. Illya didn’t mean here, of course – he meant out of the country, somewhere else, a hidden spot that Napoleon could access later. It was... it was more than the lock picks, it was a chance. Some future chance for something more. Maybe they would meet, more likely they would not. But if Illya was in a spot that Napoleon was in later, and lock picks could be left, and maybe... It was a connection. Some vague, nebulous something for the future. They would be parting after this, but if there was one thing, there could always be another...

Before Napoleon could think about it more, before he could talk himself out of it, he blurted out an address. Then, hesitantly, he gave Illya a second. And a third. Nobody else knew of those. Nobody.

Illya drew his own breath in, equally startled. He had probably only expected, if anything, a drop-off location. Not safe houses. Not Napoleon’s own.

Napoleon wasn’t quite sure which of them moved first, but then there was kissing. They were supposed to be done with the kissing. And yet, here they were again. The Russian agent was bad for Napoleon’s self-control.

They didn’t speak, and eventually drew back again, not quite looking at each other. Napoleon turned to the mirror and smoothed his hair again. 

Illya confiscated Napoleon’s comb to arrange his own hair. “What was your thought?”

“Pardon?” Napoleon wandered over to where Illya’s jacket was now draped over a chair and started investigating the different pockets inside. Not as many as with his night-raiding coat, but there were still lots of little odds and ends.

“You first,” Illya said, not as an actual statement but to remind Napoleon of their brief verbal battle earlier. He came over and watched Napoleon looking through his things but didn’t stop him.

“Oh.” Napoleon paused and considered the lock picks. “It’s not relevant anymore.”

Illya’s mouth turned up. “Still want to know.”

Napoleon would too, in Illya’s position. “I thought,” he cleared his throat, “you could keep them. Since you’d been interested, before.”

There was a pause, and then there was more kissing, and more hair combing after, also some tie straightening. At this rate, they were never going to leave this hotel room. Which wasn’t a bad thought, but was also rather impractical.

“I will keep until I reach one of yours,” Illya promised, folding the kit into a slim package which he hooked on the back of his waistband and made it secure. He put his jacket on, and they both checked the lines – the kit couldn’t be seen at all. 

Maybe there was something to Illya’s practical clothing after all. Though Napoleon still liked his suits. He put his waist jacket on and picked up the disc. “Grab the drinks, Peril?”

Illya looked at him, studying him, memorizing him one last time. This was it. They walked out there, they would be on display again, playing their roles. Then... they would be gone, each to their own. Their own countries, their own agencies. Maybe their paths would cross in the future, maybe not. Hopefully not on opposite sides.

Glancing aside, Illya cleared his throat, “Can I borrow phone, first, Cowboy?”

Oh, that was right. Probably a good idea to tell their handlers about the “decoy” before they burnt it. Napoleon’s mouth twitched up. “Feel free, Peril.”

Illya made his call first. It seemed to go okay. When it was his turn, Napoleon decided not to. This was a conversation he would rather have with Sanders after the fact. Illya’s position was different.

“Ready?” Napoleon asked, this time heading out for the drinks and leaving the disc behind.

“Yes,” Illya replied softly, and followed with the disc.

...

Napoleon drank his first shot of whiskey while he watched Illya take the tape out of the disc. The Russian took his time about it, unwinding it bit by bit, crumpling it as he went. They were in no hurry.

When Illya had finished, he left it in the ash tray and took his own drink to settle against the railing, watching Napoleon in turn.

Removing his sunglasses and putting them on the table, Napoleon got out the matches. Striking one, he glanced up at Illya, who gave him a very brief nod. Then he touched the lit match to the tape. It went up with a satisfactory ‘whoosh’ and bright yellow flames. There would always be those trying to find ways to destroy each other, but they wouldn’t have this method, at least. 

He picked up the bottle and poured himself another drink. Holding it, he looked out over the city. For him, now, Roma would always mean this. From almost shooting Illya back in East Germany, to working together here. Their romp through the shipyard would always stand out in his mind, and the start of a partnership like he’d never had before. 

With that in mind, he heaved a great sigh. “Absolutely hated working with you, Peril.”

There was only the briefest of pauses from Illya’s direction, then the retort came promptly back. “You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy.”

Fair was fair. Napoleon turned towards Illya and saw the little part smile on his face, the slight upward curve and hint of amusement that was the other man’s public grin. It was the expression that when he’d first seen it had told Napoleon there was more inside than he knew. He knew more now, but he also knew there was even more. He’d barely scratched the surface. However, it would have to be enough, for now. He’d stolen one Picasso, maybe a Monet. There was an entire gallery of art there still, and for now, it would be safe from him.

Raising his glass, Napoleon held it out to Illya. Maybe they would never see each other again. Maybe they would. In the meantime, they’d had this.

Illya returned the toast, and they both drank. For a moment, they continued to look at each other, but that was dangerous now, and so they returned to contemplating the city.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” 

At the sound of Waverly’s voice, Napoleon startled. He had been too focused and hadn’t sensed anybody else on the patio. He turned around to his left, which let him glance briefly at Illya as he did so, as well as hiding and clearing his right arm if he needed to throw his drink, or rather the heavy glass it was in.

Illya, however, was relaxed. He’d also looked, but he had a better initial view than Napoleon did, and was even now settling onto the railing again.

When Napoleon finished turning, he saw that Gaby was with Waverly, and they were stopping at the table.

“Rather a touching scene,” Waverly continued in his dry British humor. “Nice view, glass of whiskey,” he looked pointedly down at the ash tray, “and a little bonfire to keep you warm.” He looked up again, a slight grin showing. “Rather a good idea.”

Napoleon held himself ready, not reacting to the man’s prattle and waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t take long.

“So I have news. A fresh little... unpleasantness has arisen, but I’ve spoken to your superiors and now that we’re all such good friends, they’ve kindly agreed to let me keep the team together for a while.”

That... Napoleon turned to look at Illya, barely hearing the rest of what Waverly was saying. Illya was looking at him at the same time. 

“We leave in an hour.”

Illya broke their common gaze to return his attention to Waverly. “Where are we going?” His voice was anxious, worried about something.

“Istanbul, Kuryakin.” Waverly paused. “You’ll need your curly, whirly shoes.” He turned and started to leave. Gaby stayed where she was.

Illya relaxed at the answer and didn’t respond to the teasing. 

“Oh,” Waverly spoke but didn’t stop walking, “and you have a new code name.”

Napoleon switched his own attention to the older agent. “Code name?” That implied something more than just a mission. They hadn’t had a code name for this affair – it had been him and Illya doing their work in an unlikely partnership, and a sleeper spy in their midst. A code name, and Waverly had called them a team... and by leaving Gaby, Waverly implied she would be part of it.

“Yes, rather a good one,” the amusement dripped through the British accent, “Uncle.”

The British agent disappeared through the patio doors next to theirs, and Napoleon continued to stare after for a few seconds.

When he finally looked again to Illya, Illya was looking back to him. Both of them were apparently in agreement but not sure just what it was. Both of them were thrown, unsure. They had just worked everything out, prepared themselves for one thing... and now there was this.

Illya looked down first, breaking their connection. Napoleon let out his breath in a long, controlled release, careful not to make it into a sigh. As Illya raised his drink to finish it off, Napoleon looked down at his own with a grimace. The whiskey had turned sour. He put it on the table, still full other than what he’d drunk for the farewell toast. A farewell that would not now take place.

He could feel Illya looking at him, but Napoleon couldn’t look back. Not now. Everything they’d done this day, everything that Napoleon had let himself _feel_... it was all based on them never seeing each other again. One didn’t do that with partners, with people who had to go into the field with you and you might see get shot the next day. Fuck, yes, that was standard for their type of adrenaline high. But not feel. Napoleon swung around to attach himself to the railing and stare blindly over it. What had they done? What had _Waverly_ done?

He would see Illya again. They would be _leaving_ on a plane together in an hour. Istanbul. That was... Napoleon searched his memory. Four hour flight, perhaps, depending on size of plane and engine speed. If it was a plane. Waverly hadn’t specified. Four, five hours, and he and Illya would still be together. They would have to _work_ together again. Before, that would have been no problem. Now..., now Napoleon didn’t know.

“If...” Gaby spoke hesitantly. “If you don’t want me on the team, I can tell Waverly.” She was holding hurt feelings back, trying to show an acceptance of their apparent rejection, but not quite managing it.

Napoleon didn’t reply or turn around, not ready to face the others yet.

“Not everything is about you, Chop Shop Girl.” Illya’s reply was curt and biting in its matter of factness.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Gaby, though she didn’t leave.

Napoleon winced. Damage control time. He turned around again, sweeping his gaze quickly past Illya and focusing on the vision in white instead. “Harsh, Peril,” he rebuked Illya a little sharper than he meant to. “Gaby, it’s okay, really. That just... took us by surprise.”

“I thought it would be good,” Gaby said softly, sitting down in one of the unused chairs. He couldn’t tell where her gaze was, the blocky sunglasses not revealing even a hint. Unlike Peril’s tinted aviator glasses which he could still see through to the person behind them. “Us, a team again.”

Illya snorted as he reached for the whisky bottle and filled the glass. Napoleon eyed the level of alcohol in it uneasily. “Yes, because all spies work together without knowing it. Good team.” 

There was the angry Russian he’d come to know. That part had been missing for some hours. Good to know it had just been sleeping, not gone altogether.

Gaby shrank back in her chair. Then she straightened defiantly. “You said you understood! That you would have done the same.”

Napoleon pinched the bridge of his nose. Yes, they were off to a fine start. “Gaby, you work for Waverly. Illya and I don’t.” He had a brief moment of panic, then remembered that he’d started using Illya’s first name earlier yesterday, on the raid. So it wasn’t that unusual now. Gaby may or may not pick up on it, but she’d missed a lot of the action. “First of all, we have to clear this with our superiors – we can’t just take Waverly’s word for it. Chain of command and all. Second... you may not realize it, but the Red Peril and I are _good_ at what we do. It was unusual for us to work together once. To work together again... is something going on.” He and Illya shared another look, perfectly in accord with this. 

“Said Waverly was playing his own game,” Illya pointed out grimly. 

“Yes,” Napoleon agreed. “The question is what is it?”

Gaby looked between them, then took off her glasses and reached for Napoleon’s abandoned drink. “Waverly has been working on this since yesterday. It was something found while they were going through the island. He wanted us for this other mission as well, but your countries wouldn’t give the okay until now.”

Illya narrowed his eyes. “When did this okay come in?”

“About ten minutes ago. We came directly over.”

Right after Illya had called his people to report the tape was a decoy. Right after their countries knew their agents weren’t going to kill each other.

Napoleon clenched his fist and turned away again, changing his grip to the balcony rail. There was something serious enough for Waverly to need a top team for, with the same international cooperation... and the U.S. and Russia had dragged their feet and waited. They both had wanted that computer disc so badly that they had left their kill orders in place and just... waited. While at the same time, they had been negotiating with Waverly for another mission. Both of their handlers had to have known it wasn’t going to be that simple, and they didn’t even give them a head’s up. He and Illya had almost killed each other over stupid politics, and their handlers didn’t care. What if the next thing had destroyed the world, while he and Illya were dead and could have stopped it? He hated politics that played games with people’s lives.

“Cowboy,” Illya’s soft voice brought him back again, “breathe.”

Napoleon couldn’t help laughing at that. It was his line, not Illya’s. Though apparently now it was both. He felt something inside of him loosen that had been knotted up since Waverly had come onto the balcony. 

They could do this. They would have to do it, if the objective was anything on the same scale. But... Napoleon walked to the other chair, the one that was nearer to Illya, since Gaby had taken his, and he sat down, kicking his feet up on the table. “What time is it, Peril?”

With the same slight smile he’d used before, Illya pulled his sleeve back to look at his watch. “Eighteen hundred. 6pm.”

They’d been inside for nearly four hours. Four hours of a farewell that wasn’t. Well, what was done was done.

Gaby gasped. “Illya, your watch! You got it back. How?”

Illya turned the question over, “Yes, how, Cowboy? You didn’t say, earlier.”

That hadn’t exactly been the time for it. Napoleon reached out and took Illya’s drink from his hand. Sipping from it, he explained. “On the raid. One of the guards had it on. I recognized it, and... stole it back.”

Illya’s smile slipped out, the full one. “Thank you.”

Gaby made a slight noise. Napoleon wondered if she’d seen Illya’s smile before. He had presumed so... but maybe not. “Gaby, do we need to prepare anything before we leave?”

“Um, no. Waverly said we could restock and resupply along the way. To give him lists of anything special you might need and he would make sure we were met on the other end with it.”

Napoleon thought about his electronics. “How special?”

Abruptly, Illya stood up and away from the balcony. “Your kit, Cowboy.” He reached a hand behind him.

Napoleon waved it off. “Keep it, Peril. If you have them, then I’ll have it when we need to. It’s the other stuff I lost there that I’m thinking about.” He narrowed his eyes at the Russian. “You lost some things there too, didn’t you?” 

“Most was in jacket. But yes. Also,” Illya nipped the whiskey glass from Napoleon’s hand and settled against the railing again, “need to make more trackers.” He frowned at Napoleon. “Somebody destroyed my others.”

“I have the ones you planted on me,” Gaby put in. “Would they help?”

The two men looked at her. She shrugged. “Waverly was teaching me how to scan for them. He said the number was... excessive.”

Napoleon coughed, fighting down a laugh.

“Too many is better than too few,” Illya said roughly. “If I did not put so many...” His hand clenched.

Napoleon intervened. “It wasn’t the number, partner, it was the placement. Who puts trackers in _shoes_?”

Gaby promptly looked down at her own in speculation. Apparently the scanning lesson hadn’t covered them.

With a grin, Napoleon stood up. It looked like they would be okay. The interactions were there, and they were already smoothly fitting in together again. “If we have less than an hour, my friends,” he tugged down his shirt cuffs, “then I have to finish packing.” 

Waving a brief farewell, Napoleon went to the patio door and slipped inside, shutting and locking it, leaving the other two out. He most certainly didn’t want Gaby coming inside and seeing the state of his room. Illya could take care of himself, and probably needed to go back to his own room downstairs for his luggage. Presuming it had survived his earlier tantrum.

Napoleon walked into his bedroom and stared at the rumpled sheets. He closed his eyes and smelled the scent. He remembered what they had done.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes and then started redoing his packing all over again. One of the suitcases had gotten knocked over, and the other was a mess from when they’d rummaged through it. 

They would be all right. They had planned for one thing, but life changes, and Napoleon couldn’t say that he was unhappy to be paired with the two others again, particularly Illya. They could do this, and not let whatever else was there interfere. It would be... different, but they were both adaptable, and could adjust. Gaby would be there, at least, to keep them from anything too obvious. Though Napoleon couldn’t help but hope that they didn’t start up their own romance again. That would just be too much. 

A new mission with a team he liked and appreciated. It was better than going back to the CIA with the anger he had for them currently roiling in his gut. This working for Waverly... with a code name. Somehow, Napoleon didn’t think it was going to be a one-shot deal. Or two-shot, at that. Waverly was planning for something, and he’d pulled them in on it. 

He remembered Waverly’s teasing of the Russian and his lips curled up. Yes. He thought that this would work after all.

* * *

END


End file.
